#i think hes been so infected and so tainted by outside forces hes become a hotspot for anomalies

[cryptic-bee]

cbee lore go brr

!! CW for death/sh mentions and repetition !!

I am forcing you all to love these two you will love them you will appreciate them they are rotating in your brain now

(@simple-seranade <- creator of the beloved daughter that you should go follow hehee)

• • •

He never liked the dark.

Because Allays flew in pacts, he could vaguely remember that from before the fall. So from the start he was never alone in the dark, once relying on the warmth of the others when they huddled together during the nights. And after that, when he'd been separated and found by players, he could at least rely on the knowledge that the players were still nearby. That he still wasn't alone even if that's how it felt.

He never liked the dark.

Because it reminded him of shrieks that sent him flying into bricks infected by the deep darkness of the world, it reminded him of sharp gasps into broken lungs as the glow of wings fizzled out and he was plunged into the first of many lonely deaths. It reminded him of the sculk taking pity on his poor mob soul, rebranding him into something new. Something he was slowly learning to love again. Very slowly.

He never liked the dark.

Because after the fall, after becoming a new player of the world, he felt his wings deteriorating with each passing night. With each new day, each new death, and each new whisper in his head, he was losing his connection to the mobs he once called family. Eventually, the only whispers he heard was the sculk. Eventually, that would be all the newly fledged vex had left.

He never liked the dark.

Because then he woke up screaming from memories of Warden shrieks and being left behind by the ones he so stupidly trusted. Because then he had to think about sunflowers, and how he was holding one the day the Allay he once was died alone. And he didn't like thinking about sunflowers anymore, he decided. Or thinking of the players that once used him, or sculk that tried to corrupt his brain, or the phantom damage to his chest that still left him breathless and wheezing years later.

He never liked the dark.

Because his wings, now tainted by the horrors he'd faced, were ugly and torn and never quite one piece anymore. And they no longer held a comforting blue glow, no, now they lit up in a dull white hue that made him wish the sculk had just removed them. Or maybe he would do it himself, the same as he'd done with the tail that sprouted the first time his vex came loose. But the wings were still glowing. He hated that they could still glow despite it all.

He never liked the dark.

But now he laid awkwardly against a rundown couch he could remember dragging into this poorly made wooden cabin he called home, one leg hanging off the edge to make space for the little girl resting against his chest. He watched as xer back slowly rose and fell with each delicate breath, her tiny fists loosely holding onto his shirt like xe feared he would disappear in her sleep. And his wings, as much as he hated them, stayed wrapped around her like a blanket despite the large gaps in them. Because that's what xe had asked of him before drifting off after an afternoon of cartoons and coloring books and all of the things he never had but swore he'd give to her.

And somehow, he wasn't panicking in the darkness like he usually would. There was no thoughts of sunflowers or screams or fears of being left alone again. There was only him, and his daughter, and the sounds of night locked away outside of the rattling windows. And that was enough, he decided.

Maybe the dark wasn't that bad anymore.

[tcldtales]

OOC :   i know this doesnt regard neo specifically, but... hot take. i dont think spamton talking in lowercase is always him still. i think hes a mish - mash of several pieces put together weirdly, like someone jumped a puzzle only to force pieces together despite them not being a fit. my main idea is, dont you think he sometimes talks...

          ... a bit familiarly ?

[allandoflimbo]

Ashens (Part 3)

Summary: She falls in love with Bucky Barnes from the moment she sees him. Bucky, still in love with a woman from his past, hates Y/N and plans to make her life miserable. To both their dismay, they are assigned together to go undercover into The Capitol for six months. There, they develop a heartbreaking friend with benefits agreement. Dystopian.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 3,036

Rating: M for Mature, E for explicit. Enemies to lovers trope, sharing a bed trope, friends with benefits trope, temporarily unrequited love, heavy angry sex, heavy on the angst, and very strong language.

Full Masterpage

Month: February

Year: 2021

It had been three years since you saw your parents being murdered in your living room and since the civil war started.

Society had fallen.

First, it was the fight for the cure, then it was the fight for protection. Next, came the riots, the fight for food, and eventually, it all became a survival of the fittest.

Electricity and communication were no more. You don’t even remember the last time you saw a working TV. Family was no more. Violence and dishonesty were now the brutal answer.

These days, protection came in the form of clothing you owned and how much you had of it. After it became apparent that this virus was actually a bacteria born and flesh-eating disease, everyone did what they could to try and keep their skin protected as much as possible. It ate through the skin and took over your body like a plague. Heavy clothing equaled less chance of being infected. It didn’t take very long for clothing stores to be looted along with the grocery and drug stores.

Eventually, you’d have to make use of any clothing you found on dead bodies that were killed by assassination and not by the virus itself. You couldn’t risk that.

But even that was rare to come by. Everyone jumped at the opportunity of a clothed dead corpse. Whether it was for the scarf, the pants, shoes, or socks.

During the riots, most of the homes had all been destroyed either by fire or vandalism. Some tainted by dead bodies; murder scenes. Some eaten by the virus. You didn’t want to live in a home that was infected. Destroyed homes were ruined by the winter’s harsh snowstorms and the summer’s heavy rainfall. Because of their collapsed ceilings mixed in with the weather, it all eventually began to mold and collapse.

Life was no more, happiness and serenity were gone, except for in The Capitol.

No one could get inside The Wall. You heard rumors that it was guarded by heavy military and machine guns, and all of Hydra.

The Capitol was a place where your parents had planned for every single one of you to make use of to help you survive and live a happy life. It was supposed to be a safe haven, not this.

It was now the place that had been savagely stolen by Hydra and the evil rich. The migration into The Capitol had happened very soon after your parent’s death. The rich, elite, privileged, and only some certain politicians, were taken in.

The other politicians, you heard in rumors, had either killed themselves or were killed by other government officials, just like your parents had been. You heard rumors that this had been an undercover mission for years. They all knew how to take over the moment it was necessary.

Even the doctors and scientists had been taken with them. And you wondered if it was at their own will. Meanwhile, everyone else - people like you and Will and simple middle-class families with children - were forced to fight each other to stay alive.

A bloodbath.

The first few months you and Will had refused to fight anyone for food. That wasn’t in your moral plans. But it had eventually come a day when neither of you had eaten in three days, and the only thing left, in a dirty store off Route 95, was a loaf of bread. You, Will, and this random girl all argued until you eventually agreed on splitting it into three pieces.

The girl had been chewing her piece, devouring like she hadn’t eaten in days when her eyes landed on the tattoo on your neck, and immediately you knew she knew who you were. Her eyes grew dark and she jumped at the chance to attack you when Will came from behind, hitting her on the back of the head with a heavy bucket, making her pass out.

You knew that no one really knew what happened to your family. They all think it was your parent’s intentions for all of these horrible things to have happened. They blame you and your family for this. This only made you want to avenge your parents even more and even Will knew. This life wasn’t what they wanted, and it’s not what you wanted either.

You had been sitting one night, in the middle of a forest in Connecticut around a blazing fire, eating a fish you had just caught with your handmade spear. It had fed you both for many months. Will smiled over the fire at you, licking the meat off the bone clean.

“We’ll get there, Y/N.”

You stared at the fire in a daze. You hadn’t lost hope. Or at least you don’t think you did. Your feet had been bare for weeks and they were starting to chafe and bleed.

You wouldn’t admit it, but part of you did lose a little hope. You feared the first snowfall of the year. It was almost comical to you how your last worry at the moment was frostbite.

You took a deep breath, enjoying the taste of the Tilapia. You wrapped your heavy scarf over your shoulders.

“I know, I’m just tired. I wish I had more strength, I wish we had more strength. There’s two of us and thousands of them, Will.”

It was the first sign of doubt you had shown in months, and it surprised Will slightly.

“I know, but we can do it. I know we can.” he licked his fingers clean and then laid down on the wet and cold grass, his hands behind his head.

Could you do it? You weren’t sure anymore. You knew you wanted to kill Hydra and you wanted to overtake The Capitol. But were you two really capable of doing that? Have you two been delusional this entire time?

“Its been three years. Three years.” You said softly. Exhausted.

“True, but we’re young. And we’re smart. We have an advantage they don’t. That.” He bent one of his legs and stared up at the scars, a small smile tainting his lips, “We could always call The Avengers.”

You scoffed, running your hands through your hair as you threw the bare spine into the fire. You were a bit sad you finished it, your tummy still turning in hunger.

“What Avengers? Hydra destroyed their home, everything. They tried to fight and they lost. Worst than when Thanos beat them. And to make matters worse, this is a virus, it’s not something they can necessarily control. They’ve become overpowered, even the damn Avengers are overpowered now by Hydra. This is like a horror movie that will never end. It’s time we face the facts.”

Will smirked.

“I don’t know if I buy it. You mean to tell me even Bruce fucking Banner couldn’t break that damn wall?”

You gave him a glare.

“I don’t think the goal here is to break The Wall. If anything that would ruin the purpose, don’t you think?” you picked up a small and harmless rock and threw it at his chest, making him cringe, “dipshit.”

Will continued to stare up at the stars.  The night was midnight black, and now since there was no longer any electricity, you could even see the milky-way.

“I don’t see this ending badly.”

You wish you had his good heart and good soul. You furrow your brows at him.

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“This whole thing. We’ll fix it, I know we will. I don’t know how, but it will happen. I’m sure of it.”

You consider his words and nod. You slowly take your time to get up and walk over to where he is. You pull your heavy apocalyptic-style hood over your head and scooch over closer to him. You cross your own arms behind your head, also looking up at the stars. They looked beautiful, and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to feel even a little bit serene.  This is why you enjoyed Will. He was your best friend and your guardian angel.

“You really think so?” You ask.

Will turned his head over and looked at you. You did the same thing, staring back into his eyes.

You were suddenly afraid; afraid of losing your friend. What would you do without a good soul like him to keep you sane and strong?

“I do.” There was no trace of doubt in his voice.

Still, you tried to believe him, you really did.

You and Will began to fend for survival. You often thought of killing your parent’s murderer when you would both be laying under a tree in the cold of the night trying to fall asleep. You would never forget that face.  You and Will would both alternate between being watchmen to guard your food and weapons. You mostly used the weapons just for hunting, but you never knew what could happen. Still, you remained alert and vigilant.

You both never ventured too much into the city, trying to stay on the outskirts as much as you possibly could. But one day you had cut your hand while trying to spear more seafood in a riverbed, and the cut ended up being deeper than you could manage. Not only did you fear it to get in the way of your hunting, but you also didn’t want your blood seeping in through your clothing, making it more versatile to the virus.

You both found a looted, but in not-too-bad-of-a-condition, dollar store just off the freeway. You both climbed over some of the abandoned cars, making sure to look in each one just in case there was something worth taking.

You got to the entrance of the store, and Will told you he would be outside waiting and keeping guard while you looked for some bandages.

The store was almost completely empty, yet you found your way into the med isle, stepping over fallen light fixtures and useless items like beanie babies and dusted up Happy Birthday cards. You were rummaging through some boxes when you heard it.

A scream.

Will.

Your heart jumped into your throat and you acted on autopilot. You didn’t second guess, you ran through the doors and over the fallen cable wires without hesitation. Your eyes searched the eery and abandoned parking lot. You didn’t see him and you screamed Will’s name over and over again, running around the deserted parking lot. You knew it was dangerous, but you had to find him. You heard a groan and you quickly saw him lying against the curb off to the side of the highway, his arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

You feared the worst.

“No, no,” you repeated to yourself. You tried to be careful to not slip on the black ice beneath your leather boots.

You ran towards his fallen body and the first thing you say was how pale he was. His face was emotionless. Most likely shock. You crouched down next to him and you pulled his arm away from his chest. You saw a knife sticking out from his upper abdomen and blood.

A lot of blood.

He was panting and it didn’t take you long to look up across the street. There was a man faced down into the pavement. You swallowed thickly, knowing there was a fight and Will had gotten hurt.

“He saw you and he kept saying he wanted your coat, he was a loon and he had a machete, and he — and he—” Will panted.

“Shhh, shhh.” You hugged him tightly to your body as you rocked him back and forth.

“I wanted to protect you.” “I know, Will. I know.” You cried, closing your eyes tightly together and holding him closer.

He barely coughed out, his eyes rolling back.

“It hurts.” He cried.

You saw heavy tears cloud your vision and you felt a sense of impending doom.

“I got you, Will, I got you.” You don’t know if you were speaking to him or yourself.

He stretched his arm up and grabbed yours, pulling your embrace tighter around his body.

“We’ll get them, Y/N. We’ll avenge your parents, I promise. I’m too strong for this.” He squeaked, “I won’t die.” He said through clenched teeth.

Tears ran down your face as you watched him grab his own open abdomen.

“You are, Will. You are so strong.” Your face tilted to the side as more sobs racked through your body, “Please, don’t leave me. I can’t be alone. I can’t do this alone.”

You felt his nimble fingers dig into your elbow, smearing you with his blood.

“I’m so sorry.” He whimpered, some blood escaping his lips this time.

“Please, please.” You cried over and over again, holding him tighter to your chest.

It didn’t take much longer for you to feel him go limp in your arms. Your body shook with your cries when you repeated it back to yourself: Will was dead.

You didn’t allow yourself to cry for too long. You wanted to but you knew you needed to keep moving, and being this exposed could only cost you your life.

You quickly found a nice area, the nicest you could possibly find in an arena of death, and you carefully laid Will’s body down. Ironically, it was in a field of dead daisies. You delicately draped his arms over his chest and you whispered your goodbyes to him. You took a moment to cherish who he was. He was a lonely son of a construction worker and an accountant. His bother died two years ago after being infected. He had been in pain for a long time, but he had a good heart, and he strived to stay at your side to help you. You let your tears fall on your hands as you held his for just a few more minutes.

No more than a half-hour later after finding some bandages, you were back in the woods, continuing your journey south. You pulled out the compass that Will had given you, just to be sure. It was close to dusk when you heard the sound of a river running down below. Your stomach grumbled, suddenly feeling very hungry again. You had been out of luck today, finding not even one squirrel or deer. Not even a bird.

You hadn’t eaten since that morning when you and Will had split a couple of spare pumpkin seeds. Your chest tightened at the thought of him again. You felt awful for just leaving him in the field like that. You knew someone would find him soon and take the clothing off his body to keep for their own. But you had no choice. And there was no time for a proper burial, at least not in the middle of a city like that.

You continued your walk more and more, the boots that you had stolen off a girl’s body, squishing in the mood and dirt beneath your feet. You were thankful it hadn’t snowed yet this year. The cold was already unbearable as it was, if there was snow it would only make your journey worst. You couldn’t take it for granted.

You don’t know how much farther you walked since you had no watch. No one had watches anymore. Time didn’t exist anymore. But, it would help in order for you to estimate your location and how far you had left in your journey. You were guessing, realistically, it had been about an hour, judging by how much darker the sky now was.

You knew you needed to find a corner to settle in and build a fire. You needed a place to sleep for the night. Food would have to wait until tomorrow, you would go to sleep hungry again.

You take a deep breath and rest your hand on a large tree. You were extremely fatigued, in desperate need of water. You had been dehydrated for a while. You knew your canteen was running low so you had to savor as much as you could.

You took necessary sips here and there.

You drift your eyes over the horizon and through the broken branches until your gaze lands of a patch of grass that looked decent enough for a rest stop. You would lay your dirty rag you call a blanket there and get some rest.

You slowly started your walk, tucking your canteen back into your bag.

You heard owls in the sky around you and you grew worried as you began to realize that with Will now gone you were truly alone. There was no way you could avenge your parents alone. You couldn’t go into The Capitol alone.

You had no chance.

Your hands grew clammy and you started feeling worried sick, your mind now in overdrive.

You were screwed. You were all alone and screwed and there was no chance in hell you were going to come out of this alive. Suddenly, you find yourself angry at Will. Angry for lying to you and saying that everything would be okay.

How could he say that? How could he lie to make you believe it was true? You wouldn’t be capable of doing this alone? Even the Avengers couldn’t do this, even the Earth’s mightiest heroes could not win against Hydra, yet here you were trying to overthrow an entire city filled with them?

You remember the people talking about how their compound had been bombed and destroyed. They didn’t have a home anymore. They had three missions where they tried to overthrow it and failed miserably. It pained you to see that your parents hope for the future had become a living hell of blood and war. How could Will have so much faith in you? You remember the feel of his limp body in your arms and your sadness is unbearable.

More tears found your eyes and you rubbed your wet nose over the back of your sleeve. Something heavy caught the tip of your boot, and with a shriek you found yourself tumbling down and down.

Then, everything went dark.

[onewingedxngel]

One-Winged Angel Lyrical Analysis: Advent Children edition!

Part 1 (for the OG rendition) can be found here!

WOOP WOOP! Who’s ready for ROOOOOOUND TWOOOOOOO of my lyrical analysis? Me. That’s who. You’d better be too, or else, prepare for my army to stand awaiting you right outside your window...

Noli manere,  Manere in memoria (Do not remain, remain in memory)

Sephiroth is determined to stay alive; of course, this links with the final words he utters in the film: “I will never be a memory.”

To die would mean that your legacy will only live on in the memory of others. Memories are manipulated, fragile and easily lost or twisted (as seen in Cloud). And, once those who carry your memory are gone, what else remains of one’s legacy?

Sephiroth doesn’t just want to stay alive. To live the life of a normal being would mean, eventually, becoming just a memory. He wants much more than that; he wants to ascend. To be more than the weapon he was born to be. To be a God. Something eternal.

Saevam iram, iram et dolorem (Raging anger, anger and sorrow)

Notably, the official translation says ‘sorrow’, but apparently, the literal translation is ‘pain’.

This is somewhat similar to the ‘burning inside with violent anger’ line in the original, but has an extra aspect to it which explicitely mentions his vulnerable side which I so love to point at.

This is outright acknowledging that not only is Sephiroth furious about his existence, but that it is also utterly agonizing for him. He’s not some one-dimensional villain who just wants to destroy for the sake of destroying, no. The anger is mentioned first and repeated twice, but the later reference to sorrow convinces me that Sephiroth puts up this front of blind fury, where that is all someone may see from the outside- but, in reality, that fury is borne from the great sorrow/pain he holds inside his heart, formed from the horrifying truth behind his existence. And he hides this vulnerable sorrow behind this more aggressive, intimidating rage.

Filled with anger and agony. Although he tries to hide the latter behind his rage, it is still there, ever present and lingering.

Ferum terribile, terribile fatum (Brutal terrible, terrible fate)

This is extremely similar to the previous lyrics, ‘fate- monstrous and empty’, which I discussed in part 1.

But this is another acknowledgement of how he wouldn’t exist had it not been for the JENOVA experiment, which I appreciate. Again; cursed by fate into an existence of pain and anger. Sephiroth’s rampage against the planet was sealed from the moment the JENOVA Project got approved. After all, JENOVA was never a Cetra, but being infused with her cells meant he would be born with incredible power, then exploited at the hands of the Shinra Corp.

Said it before, I’ll say it again: Sephiroth was nothing more than an experiment, a weapon. His life is full of bloodshed. Humans forced him to become a killer from a young age, and a killer he remains...

Veni, mi fili. Veni, mi fili Hic veni, da mihi mortem iterum (Come, my son. Come my son Come here, give me death once more)

I think ‘my son’ refers to Cloud. Maybe this could be slightly metaphorical, with how Cloud is referred to as a failed clone of Sephiroth (and could be a sort of ‘son’ in that aspect). Especially with the ‘give me death once more’, as each time Sephiroth has died, it has been at the hands of Cloud. It’s like however much he resists, however much he tries to win... part of Sephiroth understands that death is inevitable. Or maybe, to him, Cloud may represent death. And, when facing him, he’s come to anticipate it. Yeah. That works.

But maybe it could be referring to Kadaj. Kadaj is literally referred to as a ‘larval’ stage for Sephiroth, so it could make sense for him to be a ‘son’, one way or another. Maybe he’s calling to Kadaj so the remnant embraces his transformation into Sephiroth, and ‘give me death once more’ could refer to the inevitability of death that comes with being reborn...? OR ‘give me death once more’ could refer to Sephiroth’s wish to end the lives of others/the planet?

'My son’ could also be interpreted as a reference to JENOVA’s POV as she addresses Sephiroth and craves the death of others, but... she’s long been reduced into his puppet by this point, so I think it’s more likely that these lines are from Sephiroth’s POV.

Okay, my final thoughts: this refers to Cloud, who is a metaphorical son through being a failed clone, and represents death to Sephiroth, as the two times Sephiroth died before was directly because of Cloud. Though the Kadaj interpretation seems to work quite nicely as well. I think it can go either way.

Qui mortem invitavit Poena funesta natus Noli nomen vocare Ille iterum veniet (He invited death Painful tainted birth Do not call He will come again)

WELL. We have ANOTHER depressing few lines.

He invited death could mean many things. 

If we take ‘he’ to refer to Sephiroth, it could refer to him possibly embracing his demise, as it’s what allowed him to ascend both times he’d been defeated previously (after Nibelheim he overcame JENOVA, uncovered the knowledge he needed and formulated his plan, after the original game he managed to infect the lifestream and establish a connection with Cloud). Death does not hinder Sephiroth anymore, in fact, it seems to allow him to grow even stronger. Or it could also refer to Sephiroth embracing death as a force, since he brings it upon so many.

‘Painful tainted birth’ is also very in-your-face in its reference to Sephiroth’s pain. All of his anger and agony can be traced back to the moment of his existence. Sephiroth cannot exist without being ‘tainted’, because being a JENOVA experiment is literally who he is: I’ve said this before, but a Sephiroth who isn’t an experiment, who was born a human simply wouldn’t be... Sephiroth. So his ‘painful tainted birth’ is, unfortunately, necessary for his existence: and this is something that torments him. He can never escape the fact that he is... nothing.

‘Do not call’ (his name, I presume). I’m unsure. My brain jumped to the very literal interpretation of ‘don’t say Sephiroth’s name’, but that doesn’t exactly work. He’s not treated like Voldermort to the point where no one’s willing to say his name. SO I say this is metaphorical, in the fact that Sephiroth remains in existence because of Cloud’s memories. Cloud remembering him, and ‘calling back’ to him is part of why Sephiroth won’t dissipate into the lifestream.

‘He will come again’. Obvious. Sephiroth refuses to die. He will always find a way to return, as we see in both the game and the film. There’s the theory that AC Sephiroth is the same as Remake Seph, so if this ends up being the case, this line would be relevant in that aspect too.

- - -

So, that’s it for my analysis. T’was fun. Hope y’all enjoyed.

[what-ever-happened-to-chip]

The Adventures of Squall

Squall's observations. Hmm. I don't know what Rinoa wants me to do. I guess I'll ask Eli for his notes and just give them to her. *knock knock* "Cheerio good boy, may  I help you with anything?" "Do you have notes on that thing Christian was talking about?" "Ahh you've came to the right residence, just let me....hold on just a moment..." He began digging through piles of loose paper, flipping through notebooks, all whilst mumbling to himself. "Alas! Here is one of my more rudimentary charts, but it shall accomplish what you're intial questions preface." It was hard to concentrate, he was talking very fast and using a lot of words that I didn't know. Akio says because of my ASD I sometimes get what he calls "verbal dyslexia" and it's hard for me to comprehend what other people are saying, especially if they talk different from me. I'll have to concentrate very hard if I don't want Rinoa mad at me again. "But see this is where it gets confusing, we have many great forces here, coincidence? Doubtfully so, but these overlapping characteristics I believe have come here for a reason. Many of our members, including myself, have had interactions with Christos, Christian you call him, and I can't imagine why he would let so many familar faces corner him in the same scenario, unless of course he had a plan for each individual. See, I believe..." He pulled out a chair for me that I sat in. I took out my notebook so I could remember what to tell Rinoa. "If you look here on this chart.." he pulled out a large beige canvas with several pictures pinned to it, threads of twine connecting different ones. "First you see here that Christos comes to my noble world and plants himself as Cyrus, the destroyer of worlds. He taints Noah and I am his right hand man. He tells me a great many things, we can go into later. Do realize this isn't in chronilogical order, I have no way of telling yet the timeline of all our respective worlds. "Next he plants himself as an alien, "Jenova" he calls it on Gaia and and infects the whole planet. The only one to save it was Aerith who possesses extrodainary spiritual powers. She was the last chance tho and aside from her sacrifice Geostigma went on beyond her time..." "His next target, alas, Thomas. A young, troubled boy whom Christian fictionalized a companion for. An alter ego of sorts and made thomas believe it was himself. I believe he might have been weak and needed a human body to recover on. At some point Christian went to Aiden and found him by the Sanguis River, which is the border between our world and ubi requiescit dolor or "where sorrow rests. I haven't been able to spot where he showed up in Harry's world, but I do know he was there at some point. He likely was only a death eater of no great importance. Same with Roxas, Christian probably took the form of a nobody, which of course begs the question...." It was really hard for me to take notes as fast as he talked. I was really tryign to spell words better to get in the habit of it. Reading was easy for me, but writing made me nervous. I'll just get the names and maybe i'll remember. "can one become a nobody without having a form first? Perhaps that's it. He was a formed human on one planet and when he was almost destroyed at some theroetical part, he latched onto Thomas but only came back as a nobody which of course is an allusion. Details, details, but where were we? Oh yes, next on his infamous walk through time was of course Aangs world where he brought the powers of darkness to a seemingly balanced world, probably dating back to around...." I needed to yawn, but it seemed rude. I wonder how he knew all of this. He seemed confused himself. Maybe I should talk to some other people. Rinoa will be mad if I only talk to him. I should have gotten more information earlier.

“And of course Akio’s unfortunate fate with him, presenting himself as illusions to drive the man mad I’m sure. I do believe he could do that, his evil seems endless.” He paused and looked around at all his charts and papers. this will be a good time to excuse myself. "I have to use the restroom, excuse me" He didn't seem to notice me leave, he kept talking and looking at his papers. While I was walking I saw Harry with a plastic cup pressed up to a door. As I walked closer to him he dropped the cup and ran. I went to the kitchen. "Hey Zack" He was drinking really fast out of a big water bottle. Some of it was spilling on his black shirt. "Heya buddy, I broke 20 in 80, my new personal best. Gotta love the summer time." "What?" "Oh 20 miles in an hour and 20, a 4 minute average." "...." "So do you know anything about why we had to go to Camp A and Camp B?" "Ulquiorra seemed pretty on edge, everyone getting riled up like that. Maybe it's time for the old man to retire!" "What about the dark world place?" "I don't know much about that, but I tell you I sure don't know want to get to know it better if you know what I mean. Anyways bud, lactic acid builds on stiff muscles, gotta do my cool down." He then clapped me a little hard on the back, it was sort of uncomfortable, then left the room. I continued walking around looking for someone else to talk to. Rikku is on the couch watching a cartoon called the Powerpuff Girls. She is flossing on the couch? Why isn't she in the bathroom. I'll wait until she's done. I'll wait around the corner so she doesn't know I saw her doing it. After about 70 second she dropped the floss on the ground. There was a garbage can right on the table, but I guess she didn't see it.

"Hey" "Uhhh hey..." Her eyes never left the screen. "Do you know anything about the dark spirit place Christian was talking about?" "Hmmm, there was this one story Buddy used to tell us to scare us, it seems like the same thing and i don't know with all this world collide bs i wouldn't surprised if it's the same. "Do you know the story?" "I don't know ask Buddy, i'm busy." "..." Okay I wonder where Buddy is. I heard a basketball hit the basket outside. Sometimes we play basketball together. "Yo, yo, yo man 3 on 3, pussy slayers vs bitch playas." "AW SHIT" "wooof woof woof" "Which ones which?" asked Aang. "My brutha you knows yous a slaya!" on that they bumped their fists together. "I guess that means i'm with you guys" Tifa said and smiled. That means I'm on Adam's and Riku's team. I played basketball up to 21 points. My team lost. I'm good at making baskets, but not as much at passing and working with my team. "Aight, aight, how bout a smoke break and then maybe we'll give ya'll a rematch." As they all began to disperse, I walked up to Buddy. "Rikku said you could tell me a story about the dark place." "Rikku tol you that?" "Yes. The one you use to tell her." He looked both ways and then straight at me. "I don know nuthin about no story." "Okay, sorry." I guess I better ask someone else. I was getting tired. I should have done this earlier, but I see  Rinoa tomorrow. I think it would be a good idea to ask Thomas. I'll see if he's in his room. *knock knock* He opened the door slow, but wide and stared at me. "Can you tell me anything about the dark place." He looked surprised and happy. Akio tells me sometimes people's facial expressions don't always show what they mean, but it's a good indicator if I'm confused. I think he wants me to come in. He was sitting in his computer chair and he had clothes folded on his bed so I don't want to sit there and get them dirty. "I find it rather odd you're the one asking me this question. Eli wasn't surprising one bit, but it's not like he'd listen if I did tell him anything." "So you don't know anything?" "Don't know anything? Yeah right. I know everything that I need to. And ultimately however this goes, there's nothing left for me to lose." "...." "I must admit it does get rather boring having to hold back such genius in my mind. Feigning ignorance on all matters that go on here just to be able to thrive. This truly is the best case scenario for me and I know i'm not alone." He was frowning now. I didn't say anything so I know he probably isn't mad at me. I've learned that most people just keep talking if you say nothing. It helps a lot because I usually have nothing to say. "Are you looking for the nitty gritty, the gory details, or simple how're you're involved?" "Rinoa wanted to me to ask people about it. She thinks we're being lied to." "HAH. Just now she thinks she's been lied to?? Foolish girl." "Rinoa is smart." "Perhaps she is, all the same it's all clouded by her ego." "....." "So rinoa wants to know about the dark world they've after all this time brought up. You have to know though, Simon wouldn't have brought it up if there wasn't some gain to him, some strategic reason for his timing. He's a puppet master, he probably knew you would be here talking to me. It's all going just to his plan.....or perhaps he thought I would kick you out and that would keep him advantageous. But he knew that i'd knew that he was planning that." I was getting pretty confused. "Who's Simon?"

He frowned at me. "He's Christian." "Okay." "That's right "Christian" has had many names, many forms. He's wormed his way into many of lives and took everything they had with them. A leech. Of course a leech needs to eat too." I had been in his room almost 15 minutes. It was probably time to talk to someone else. "The dark world, purgatory, the eternal space, the fog, every world has a different name for it. Some are ignorant, but most know that not everyone gets the "good death". It's origin is beyond me, but I know what it is now. And I know he wants to go there. He's looking for something. Or maybe he's helping someone else." "I have to go now." "Then go, i'm not keeping you if that's what you thought" Thomas sneered at me. "..." *door shuts* As I left Thomas's room, Zidane came in really quickly from the front door. He looked really skinny these days. He pulled off his knapsack and begin looking for something deep within it. I don't know why he still uses his old knapsack, a good messenger bag would look a lot nicer and be a lot less stressful on his shoulders. "OKAY DADDY'S HOME, who wants to party???" As people began pouring into the dining room, they gathered around as he poured a large bag of cocaine out onto the clean glass table top. I remembered when I went fishing the other day how when I dropped bread crumbs in little fish would swarm to all try and get the food at once. It reminded me of that. I used to do cocaine sometimes with Irvine and his friends, but Akio says that it might make my OCD and ASD worse. I didn't want to mess with it, I had already had a stressful day. That's good enough for now. I'll just go to bed and maybe in the morning someone will talk about it and I won't have to ask. I did my bedtime rituals in the normal order, brush teeth, clean face, comb hair, change out of all clothes into two pairs of fresh underwear, socks, and pajamas. It was nice tonight I could turn off the air conditioner. I rested my head on the pillow. The cocaine was making everyone rowdy and I could hear it. Great I could hear Aiden yelling from his room that was right next to mine, on the side my bed was pushed against. I've asked Garnet multiple times if he could switch rooms, but she says no one wants his room cause it smells like blood and has a bunch of holes in the walls. And I was definitely not going to switch my room, everyone was right in it, it didn't need to change. I don't want to spy on people, but last time I said I wouldn't do what Rinoa wanted she threatened to not talk to me for a month. Instead, she talked, or more so bitched, the entire month at me, never letting me have some peace and quiet. I don't want that again.

I took out my nightly form to see how I’’m doing and filled it out.

Anxiety: 8/10

Mood: 6/10

Insomnia: 2/10

OCD: 7/10

Triggers: Talking to people, missing lunch because no one would leave the kitchen, having to ask questions, shoe lace breaking and not having a replacement.

Medication issues: None

Overall: 6/10

He kept yelling, but I could hear another voice too. He often talked to himself so at least when someone else was there, it was only half yelling. I really didn’t want to do it, but I felt Rinoa demanding me why I didn’t. I didn’t like lying to her.

   I remembered Harry earlier. I poured my water cup out and pressed my ear against the bottom of it. "Denny if that's the case, what do you have to lose?" "EVERYTHING. DON'T YOU GET IT!!! I've been waiting too long for you to FUCK things up." "Well I do admire your dilligence Denny, you truly never give up." "I will never give up, I will never stop until things are right." "Being when you have Jenn back?" "NO SHIT. All you are is a pawn. There is no other reason you're here." "The life of a king or the life of a pawn, really only is affected by perspective. I take my place with pride and am grateful for whatever else life I get to cherish." "I've waited long enough, i'll wait forever, but I sure as fuck don't want to." "Aside from your said goals, I am curious, did J really return from there?" "Fuck if I know. It has nothing to do with me." "There feels as if there is things you aren't telling me Denny." "WELL HOW THE FUCK DID IT GO LAST TIME I DID." "Please.....I want to help." "As long as Christian holds up his end of the deal, I won't need to use you. And he has the same goal." "I get the feeling you two are not alone in your quest. Are there others?" "Yeah but they're not important really. Just gotta an eye on them." "Even more useless than I?" "No one could be more useless than you." "Ahh how appropriate I and Lana are spending our time in this waiting room together, both readily discardable part of the larger schemes of the world. I've never felt quite so zen  before." "haha maybe they should bring Liza around and see how well you two get along." "I believe they would get along splendidly. they like the same music, both androgenous yet stunningly feminine, thrill seeking." "Ur forgetting one thing, cock makes bitches crazy, look at Jenn and Yuna. They'd be the best friends in the world if Yuna hadn't sucked my dick." "And by Jenn, you mean that girl masaqurading as your girlfriend?" "Watch it fucker." "I'm only stating your sentiment seems strangely misplaced seeing Yuna is in real danger whereas "Jenn" is only what you make her to  be" "I don't think anything has to happen to her, but if it does she knew what she was getting into." "Yes, but that was a long time ago. A long time before now I would have sacrificed myself for your well being, do you think things are the same now?" ".......what do you mean..? but you....just said...WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN??????!!!!!!!" "I was only teasing Denny, of course I'm here at your service, seeing of course you are the sole reason I am here. I don't think it's wise to betray our gods." "Heh yeah right, I'm your fucking god." "Indeed I am in religious awe." "heh yeah sure. So fucker whatchu got in the briefcase." "Zidane went and filled my reservoirs, I'm back in business" "Hook it up bitch." "I wouldn't have it any other way." After that they started talking quieter in a way that didn't bother me, Finally I can go to sleep.

[kalashtars]

Top 10 mcr songs that you can apply to spn to make me sob

ISRA im gonna scream <3 Okay I'm gonna put this under a cut bc this is such niche content and also there are PARAGRAPHS ahead so be warned

send me a top 5/top 10!

1. Heaven Help Us: "I'm at this old hotel, but U can't tell if I've been breathing or screaming or sleeping, or waiting for the man to call" "And the punchline to the joke is asking, someone save us?" Season 5 vibes..... Everything abt the angel imagery and the fruitless begging for help. "The angels come screaming / Down your voice / I hear you've been bleeding / Make your choice / They say you've been pleading / someone save us" gives me STRONG early season Dean being told he's Michael's sword vibes.

2. Mama: We've established that literally Every lyric works but. "if you can coddle the infection / they can amputate at once" with the psychic abilities and this being John's view on it! like how he can just cut it off from Sam instead of acknowledging it. "and if you can stay then I'll show you the way / to return from the ashes you call" and how this whole song is Sam talking to Mary in 4.21 when he's going through withdrawals and he's battling the parts of him that think he's doing the right thing vs. him thinking that he's corrupted and fucked up!!!!! i Cannot stop thinking abt it.

3. Early Sunsets Over Monroeville: This is literally just same at the end of Heart when Sam has to kill Madison!! "not knowing you'd change from just one bite / i fought them all off just to hold you close and tight" "And if I had the guts/ To put this to your head/ But would anything matter / If you're already dead?" It's him contemplating if he should kill her bc she's been changed into a werewolf. literally i have So Many Emotions someone pls save me.

4. Vampires Will Never Hurt You: Sam talking to Dean/himself abt his psychic abilities & the demon blood! "And if they come and get me. / What if you put the spike in my heart?" him telling Dean to kill him if he goes dark side. "And someone save my soul, tonight / Please save my soul" Sam knowing he doesn't want to die like this and feeling like he has to rectify what he's done, "purify" himself... Yeah. Yeah.

5. Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back: Swan Song Vibes 💕 "I hope you're ready for a firefight / 'Cause the devil's got your number tonight (they say)" Sam deciding to say yes to Lucifer. "Who gives a damn if we lose the war / Let the walls come down / Let the engines roar" The walls are the barrier between Sam and Lucifer & the engines are the impala going into the cemetery! "Through the broken glass and the morning light / Be a burning star if it takes all night / So just save yourself I'll hold them back tonight" Sam to Dean before he jumps in the pit to save the world from angel war

6. This Is How I Disappear: The inbetween s3 and s4! "To un-explain the unforgivable / Drain all the blood and give the kids a show" "There're things that I have done / You never should ever know" obviously Sam starting to drink demon blood. "Can you hear me cry out to you? / Words I thought I'd choke on figure out / I'm really not so with you anymore" Sam feeling the absence of Dean! "And now, you wanna see how far down I can sink?" :(

7. On a completely different side, I Never Told You What I Do For A Living: it's a Castiel song. Hear me out. "You can say a prayer if you need to / Or just get in line and I'll grieve you /Can I meet you, alone" Cas talking Dean, maybe referring to how often the Winchesters die. "Another knife in my hands / A stain that never comes off the sheets" Angel blade, abt him killing other angels or maybe just in general abt how it taints him away from being an angel. "Touched by angels, though I fall out of grace / I did it all so maybe I'd live this every day" The fall!!! He becomes human and loses his grace. And then "I tried, I tried" well. That one's obvious.

8. I don't even think I need to quote Helena for it to make sense. Dean about Mary. He's grieving over her death "We are so far from you / Burning on / Just like the match you strike to incinerate". "So long and goodnight".

9. Isra you did Thanks For The Venom justice already but I'm going to re-emphasize: "I wouldn't front the scene if you paid me, I'm just the way that the doctor made me" abt the boy king content and how azazel made him to become the king of the demons! "give me a reason to believe" is Sam looking for reasons yo hunt and keep hunting and believe in the cause against evil "If this is what you want then fire at will" Sam @ Dean during the s4 fight, telling Dean to just kill him like Dad said. "preach all you want, but who's gonna save me?" Along the same lines, Sam talking to Dean abt working with ruby or the demon blood, saying there's no other way to kill Lilith... yeah.

10. Welcome to the Black Parade: i mean. C'mon. This is absolutely a Dean song. the direct parallels you could make to the band & hunting Hits like.... John indoctrinating Dean to hunting by being like "will you be the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned?" "Sometimes I get the feeling she's watching over me" abt Mary. "I'm just a man, I'm not a hero. Just a boy who had to sing this song" Dean never really wanting to hunt but being told and forced to for so long that he doesn't have a purpose outside of it and only knows how to be a hunter. We are Feeling It boys.

[drjackandmissjo]

I am not afraid to keep on living, I am not afraid to walk this world alone.

Immortal Husbands Fanfiction

Chapter 1 --- Ao3 --- next chapter

1099, just outside of Jerusalem. Everyone says it's a miracle, a sign from God. He partially agrees, but the true miracle is in his dreams and heart.

TW! Internalized Homophobia

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANNA BE TAGGED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!

During his studies, he had been taught that Heaven was a quiet and graceful place where he would find all the answers to the questions that might populate his mind and that he would also be completely and utterly at peace with himself, in the light of the Lord. One could enter through its doors after repenting his sins in Purgatory, but those who lead an exemplar life in the Lord’s name would be able to walk right in, to simply follow the Light to his Grace and be joyful.

On the other hand, the fiery Pits of Hell were a place of eternal damnation, torment and madness. They were filled with screams and pain and misery. In order to be sent there one would have to commit heinous crimes, monstrous actions that weren’t atoned by the sinner and that could not be forgiven by Him. They were full of murderers and traitors and thieves and heretics and infidels and pagans and blasphemous people. And, of course, they were populated by the sodomites.

If there was one thing his seminary made clear, it was that sodomy was a disease, an illness of the body that only His Grace could heal. To follow such crude and unnatural instincts was to shy away from His Light for eternity.

Out of all of the groups of people that filled the Pits simply because of their existence and their immoral livings, it was definitely the sodomites that were mostly persecuted, especially while they were still alive. Many were forced to amend, to forgone their sinful ways and to beg the Father for forgiveness.

Niccolò was twelve years old, almost in adulthood yet not old enough to hold his own thought, when he realized how wrong he fundamentally was. His friends, the boys he played with around the streets of Genoa since he had memory, were starting to grow into maturity, were starting to be interested in girls and in the glory of war. Niccolò did not like the way their dialogues would turn, one day their mouth full of bread they had wrongly stolen and the other their eyes preying on the passing ladies that pretended not to see them and not to be bothered.

He liked the way they dressed, their colourful clothing and the modesty of their dresses. He had told his father as such one day, not understanding why it had become such a scandalous thought in his mind to be caught staring at one, but he was only regarded with scepticism. “You are still young, you will understand soon,” his father had claimed.

But the years went by and he still could not comprehend all the commotion around women. Especially after his friends returned from private adventures that made him want to claw his eyes and ears out when they retold them, way too descriptive and not penitent at all. He had believed that their recounting of them was a way to show amend, to reveal their impurities to repent them, but he quickly saw the error of his thinking. It was a sin to commit to the flesh before one’s wedding, that much was very clear, yet here his friends were, not particularly caring that they would burn for eternity.

He decided to begin his studies young, as soon as he figured how impure and blasphemous his mind was, when his eyes began to linger too long on the wrong person and when his traitorous heart moved towards the wrong sentiment. He decided to cut the wrongness inside of him as soon as it appeared, a weed needed to be eradicated before it infected the entire field, to abstain his flesh from any temptation. After all, it was when sin took physical form that the soul was lost. He could still be saved.

He moved in a monastery near Genoa, despite his father’s protests, knowing that his destiny laid in there, and focused on his work with zealousness and goodwill, never once straying from the path the Lord must have wanted him to follow. It was certainly what He had intended, when He made him. He had to repent, to be penitent.

Niccolò took his vows when he felt his soul was cleansed, purified from all of the improper thoughts. His demons had left him in alone, had stopped tormenting him with their impurities. For the first time, he was free of that internal turmoil that devastated him. He began living peacefully, working in community with his newly found brothers, ignoring the way his heart twisted as if something was missing. He didn’t have an answer for that pain he would occasionally get, sharply reminding him how utterly wrong and alone he was, whenever he was left alone to his own devices for too long or, on several occasion, even when he was surrounded by the other monks, but he had found a solution: the pain would quiet down with work and with the prayers. After all, their motto was ‘Ora et Labora’ for a reason, he rationed. If their forefather had elaborated that concept, it must have meant something that held all of the keys to tranquillity.

Years went down quietly, peacefully. He was in agreement with the environment surrounding him and he was pure, untouched by the external world and its temptations. The day he accomplished his priesthood was his most cherished one: he had never felt such tranquillity in his spirit, had never felt so close to Him. His head was void of compulsion, empty of longing. His only desire was to shine in His Light and, for one moment, he had felt utterly in harmony. He had found his purpose, helping lost sheep to regain their path under His Grace, and he could finally understand why He had given him such a burden to shoulder. If it had not been for his impure mind, he would have not followed His Plan, failing to complete his vocation.

There was peace, or as much as there could be, in the little routine he created between his personal prayers, mass and the communal work he did in the monastery that he called home.

But times changed and his serenity got disrupted. The world was in uproar, the infidels conquering and disrupting the world, threatening the empires in the East with their brute way of living. Words ran of the Pope inciting French nobility to aid them, to cleanse their souls with the servitude and the help to their brothers in distress. Constantinople was in danger, words went, and Jerusalem, the Sacred City, had been compromised and taken away from the Lord’s Light.

His superiors were fretting as untrained soldiers began their march. For in the beginning, it hadn’t been the nobility or the military to answer the Pope’s call: peasants took part in a pilgrimage, with their wives and elders, only to be massacred just after leaving Constantinople by the Turks. Then came the turn of the real soldiers, trained and ready for war. In the following two years they managed several victories, but Jerusalem was still far and in danger.

His own bishop ordered all the monasteries to lend aid to the bellicose efforts to regain back control and they could not contradict the order. Niccolò himself was shipped away to Yafa alongside his people from Genoa, bringing aids and engineers to finally, after three years, end the bloodshed. He was not a soldier, he complained, he was only a devoted priest, yet it did not matter. Their order to fight came from Rome directly and the Pope’s will was the Lord’s. Clearly they were in the right.

As soon as the fleet attracted to the shores of Yafa, he could not contain his stupor. That was not the ruined and wounded land they were made to believe, devastated by the infidels and the pagans. It was fertile and pure and tainted with the blood of the dead. Niccolò prayed for their souls as he helped dismantle the ships for wood and prayed at night for his own, dreading the moment he would have to bear arms against an enemy. He was terrified of what it would mean for him, to take a life so willingly, for what in his eyes were futile reasons.

Perhaps, if he believed more in the cause, he reasoned, it would be more bearable. Yet he had made vows and he was forced to break them. He prayed the Lord would look with kindness at him, at his ruined soul that had seemed to just have mended from its turbulent past.

It happened on their tenth day there, the hot summer Sun shining down at them. He had awoken that morning with an impending sense of doom looming over his chest, the night tormented by nightmares of blood and dirt. His usual prayers didn’t calm him down, didn’t bring him their usual clarity.

His team had to help in the constructions, to supervise and act in case the infidels attacked. It had already happened once, a surprise ambush to one of their teams that culminated in a massacre, and no one was willing to repeat the scene, thus the monks and priests armed to the teeth, ready for the slaughter. Niccolò hoped that he would not have to raise his sword, that he would not take a life that day, but he knew deep down that if it was fated, it would happen whether or not he wished for it.

Once midday came and went, the tension in his shoulders eased a little. Surely they will not attack anymore, having wasted the morning.

But they still came, scimitars drawn as they ran towards their little assemblement. He and his companions had just finished their small meal, already moving back into their positions to complete the work they had left for the day. The heat made everything slow down, unaided by the full stomachs and the empty minds.

They were told to expect an attack yet were still caught by surprise.

It was a blur, all of it. It happened so quickly, that Niccolò wasn’t able to remember how it began truly, only able to recall the important things that happened during the fury of the ambush, or so he told his superiors when they questioned him, weary and visibly terrified.

He shouldn’t have remembered anything at all. But he did.

He remembered the sand under his sandals and between his toes, grounding him to that Holy Land he was to die protecting. He remembered the way his companions screamed and shouted orders to the engineers and the workers to scramble away, to save themselves, that they would hold them back, that they would protect them. He remembered the way the Sun reflected off the enemy’s armour directly into his eyes, the way their capes flew in the wind behind them, readying the air for the turmoil, their feet scraping the sand, readying the soil for the bloodshed. He remembered the air turn dry and cold in his throat, words dying in his mouth as he unleashed his sword and brandished it with both hands, unable to stop the tremor. He remembered the weight of his own armour, his own helmet. He remembered sending a prayer up to the Heavens, knowing that He would listen. He remembered taking a life and having his life taken in return.

That was all he told when asked, all he could say. He didn’t wax poetry of what he had felt as a sword passed through his heart, for he felt nothing. One moment he was upright, fighting, and the next he was on the ground, his vision blackening as the Sun shone above him, one last vision of His Power. It was emptiness and quiet and it was terrifying. It was all but a dream, one he would have never woken up from.

Except that he had, by some miracle the archbishop claimed, calling the Lord’s Mercy a good sign for the imminent battle. He had jolted up, hands immediately searching for the Cross he carried on his neck and for the sword he was supposed to always have by his side. Instead, he grasped dirt and sand, his eyes registering the setting Sun as his ears heard something heavy fall on the ground, followed by terrorised screaming.

He looked around himself: he was lying on the empty ground, his clothes still matted with his own blood; bodies were cold next to him, eyes closed and hands clasped over their unmoving chests, sacred ointments making their way off their foreheads and into the earth; there was a body in front of him, eyes vacant and grey hair, he wore simple robes and a cross at his neck, a little bottle open next to him, spilling its content on the ground. He couldn’t understand what was the commotion about. He had been stabbed, had been killed. This was supposed to be Purgatory, the place where he would be able to finally be free, or, worse, Hell. The place he dreaded the most. Yet it didn’t seem like either places, it was humid and hot and welcoming.

But he had been killed, he had felt the life leaving his tired body, had felt his legs give out, had felt the peace that he had been told would claim as Death laid its fingers on him. Then why was he still alive?

“It’s a miracle!” voices screamt around him as a bishop rushed towards him, making his way violently to witness what had just happened. The priest that was giving them their Last Rites had simply dropped dead, they said, as one of the dead rose! All the while Niccolò was still seated on the naked earth, unable to comprehend what had happened to him or why everyone seemed to have a newly found interest in him. He was only a devoted priest from a monastery in Genoa, after all.

But the voices still chanted in joy, in jubilee. Other called scared to sorcery, demons and blasphemy.

Niccolò held his breath as he examined his own body, expecting to find it disfigured and bloody and hollow. Instead of the wound that he was certain he had been inflicted, there was smooth skin, untouched by a scimitar that had passed through his body and exited on the other side, leaving him to gasp for breath as he bled out. He tried to speak as men rounded around him, blocking the view of the Sun and forcing him to explain something he had no explanation for.

He was forced to recall everything in the following days, passing from priest to medic to priest again. He was examined, he was exorcised, he was punished, he was gratified. On the third day, his superiors had finally reached a conclusion.

So close to the siege, they claimed, so close to doing what the Lord intended for us to do, He sends a sign. They began to treat him with equal part respect and fear, made him seat at their tables and burn his fingers to prove of His blessings.

He had recounted those moments to exhaustion, until he wasn’t able to speak anymore, everyone asking him how he died and how he survived. Nobody asked him who had killed him, or if he remembered the man in front of him.

But he remembered.

Niccolò remembered the scimitar piercing him, he remembered tasting metal as the man opposed to him closed his eyes by his own blow, the action seemingly perfectly timed as they both plunged their weapons through each other’s hearts. He remembered the way the man’s hair curled under his helmet, he remembered the stubble on his cheeks, he remembered the way the man’s nose seemed to round at the bottom, following a straight line unbothered by time, he remembered how deep and profound his eyes had been. He remembered the way the man’s lips moved silently as he had fallen to the ground on his knees, undoubtedly saying a prayer before leaving the world, just as Niccolò had done himself. He remembered thinking that if that was the last thing he saw before passing away, that it might have been worth it. The man looked like an angel, like a painting, like a dream he shouldn’t have asked and have answered.

Niccolò had to pry his eyes away from the fallen soldier and to force them to look up, to remember his path.

The nights following the miracle, he still dreamt of him. He was surrounded by infidels, his own people Niccolò realized, as they analysed him the same way he had been examined. A small part of his mind screamt at him to look away, but how could he when all he could see whenever he closed his eyes were the way the moonlight reflected off the man’s jaw as he polished his armour during a sleepless night. Worst was that he didn’t want the dreams to stop.

He knew it was a dangerous line he walked and so he kept his peace. Nobody had asked him about the man that had killed him, nobody cared about another dead enemy. And he didn’t have to tell anyone.

But when he was alone, lying on the ground as he tried to sleep, he prayed for that man. He didn’t know whether he had been saved as well, couldn’t know. It would have been blasphemous, to believe that He had saved an infidel, a pagan. It would be sinful to hope for his safety. Despite a strange feeling in his stomach telling him that he had somehow, miraculously, survived as well, he couldn’t be sure and could not risk finding the answer. And so he prayed, wishing ruefully to be able to see him again outside of his dreams. Niccolò knew that was wrong, terribly so, but he couldn’t help himself.

He was lost in the way he could see the man laugh in front of a fire, the way his hands moved on a piece of paper to draw something, the way he seemed to still be alive. He didn’t know if the dreams were real or just a way for his demons to torment him, but he didn’t care. He had died and came back to life, had the peace he had painfully worked on taken away from him.

A peace than was given back in his dreams, more effortlessly that he could have ever imagines, as he saw the man every time he closed his eyes to pray.

[innervoiceartblog]

(via Unraveling – Terry Tempest Williams)

Photo by Rhonda Lashley Lopez

Unraveling by Terry Tempest Williams

Terry Tempest Williams searches for what is revealed when worlds unravel, tracing the entangled nature of undoing and becoming.

Unravel   un·rav·el  |  \ ˌənˈravəl \

verb gerund or present participle: unraveling

1. undo (twisted, knitted, or woven threads)

Similar: untangle, disentangle, straighten out, separate out, unsnarl, unknot, unwind, untwist, undo, untie, unkink, unjumble

2. (of an intricate process, system, or arrangement) disintegrate or be destroyed

Similar: fall apart, come apart (at the seams), fail, collapse, go wrong

3. investigate and solve or explain (something complicated or puzzling)

Similar: solve, resolve, work out, clear up, puzzle out, find an answer to, get to the bottom of, explain, elucidate, fathom, decipher, decode, crack, penetrate, untangle, unfold, settle, reveal, clarify, sort out, make head or tail of, figure out, suss (out)

I am unraveling. I am unraveling like a rattlesnake in the desert tightly coiled, my tail issuing a warning I cannot yet decipher. My mind is unraveling as I move to free my thoughts from being held captive for too long in such a tensely wound space. For months, I have been in a defensive stance visible only to surrounding ghosts. Fear brought me here. Uncertainty brought me here. Two hundred and fifty thousand dead from the coronavirus brought me here. My capacity to strike, from one emotion to the next, frightens me. After isolating myself in a landscape of arid beauty for the past nine months during a global pandemic, why do I find myself in the process of unraveling now? What is waiting and wanting to come forth?

When I don’t know what something means, I do three things: consult a dictionary; ask someone I respect and listen; go for a walk.

The dictionary gave me definitions, but what caught my attention was the word “reveal” in the list of synonyms. To unravel is to reveal what has been hidden. And when I asked my father (now 87 years old and weathering the pandemic at home with his partner and a borrowed dog named Sparky) what he thought it meant to “unravel,” he simply said, “I’m too bored to think about it.”

I understand.

An hour later, Brooke and I went for a walk. We found a small, unexpected pioneer cemetery, adorned with plastic red and blue roses, on a bluff overlooking the Dolores River. We stopped to watch a great blue heron fish the shallows. The long-legged bird was not unraveling; she was paying attention, focused on her task. Within minutes, she speared a trout, most likely a rainbow. We watched her slowly, deliberately walk back to the mudflats, toss her head back, releasing the fish into the air, and on its way down gulp the trout whole. The narrow body of the trout, now a bulge, was moving down her neck in a series of muscular swallows. The heron stood still for some time along the riverbank, then waded back into the depths of her perfect concentration.

What interested me in this particular moment was how the heron could live her life, as her species was meant to live, with an integrity of purpose in place—even as the ecosystem to which she belongs is unraveling around her. Climate change is affecting the flow of the Colorado River, with its incoming tributaries, like the Dolores, waning. We are now in what climate scientists are calling “a megadrought.” Moab’s average annual rainfall is 10 inches. In 2020, we have received 4.9 inches, less than half the norm. Monitoring the health of the Dolores River, the nonprofit group Conservation Colorado gave the Dolores River a grade of D− in terms of its water quality. Why? Dams and reservoirs disrupt the natural flows and displace sediments, deeply altering the character of the river. Abandoned mines and uranium tailings continue to leach into the headwaters, carrying on a toxic history familiar to the Four Corners region of the American Southwest. Increased fossil fuel development, including fracked gas, is affecting water tables and aquifers, all contributing to its failing grade.

Could we read the health of the great blue heron fishing along the Dolores River through this poisonous narrative now alive in her bloodstream? Like us, each species large and small—feathered, furred, or finned—carries the larger story of planetary health in their cells. The difference between our species and other species is that we are responsible for much of the demise of all the others.

As life on the planet is unraveling, in ways seen and unseen, we are also unraveling the natural consequences that these larger narratives of unconscious behavior are inflicting on populations, both human and wild. For example, the heinous, illegal wildlife trafficking infiltrating “wet markets” (where fresh meat, fish, and produce are sold) from Asia to Africa and across the globe is responsible for 75 percent of zoonotic viruses. COVID-19, the disease caused by the SARS-CoV-2 virus, is a zoonotic disease. That means it came from an animal or animals. SARS-CoV-2 is not the first novel coronavirus to infect humans—it’s the seventh.

A report from the Center for Biological Diversity (CBD) found “that the United States imported almost 23 million whole animals, parts, samples and products made from bats, primates and rodents over a recent five-year period. These animals harbor 75% of known zoonotic viruses—pathogens that spread from animals to people.”

Wildlife markets in China���where animals are “kept in cramped cages for purchase and slaughter”—are believed to be the source of the global pandemic we now find ourselves in. The CBD goes on to say that, “…many researchers believe it originated from a bat, a scaly mammal called a pangolin (globally the most heavily trafficked mammal), or potentially both. The virus may have spilled over to humans from an unknown animal. Or it may have evolved after infecting people.”

We are unraveling in inexplicable ways given how tightly and mysteriously the world is woven together. Pull one strand and all the strands are disrupted, threatening the integrity of the overall pattern.

We are Earth unraveling and reforming creation.

Along with dictionaries, scientists, and the land itself, I consult the Dead. I hear my grandmother telling me to focus on “the golden thread” that shows us “the through line” that weaves the world back together again. Where might this golden thread be found now?

In March, early in the novel coronavirus pandemic, a global prayer was held at a designated time on a Sunday morning for the Earth and all its inhabitants. Like so many collective rituals, this reached me on the wind by word of mouth.

I walked outside and faced Round Mountain, an ancient volcano plug in the southern end of the valley where we live. I held my grandmother’s “hand stone”—an egg-shaped, polished amethyst—in my right hand as I had seen her do repeatedly. It was her talisman, which she bequeathed to me in her will. She told me it calmed her heart and opened it. I closed my eyes in prayer—believing in the power and connectivity of people gathered together in the name of health and peace on the planet. My mind was quiet, receptive.

In time, I began to feel a heat rising in me from the ground up. To quell my fears and skepticism, I kept my attention focused on how the warmth was settling in my body. In my mind’s eye, I saw a flame coming toward me from the center of Round Mountain, gaining in heat and size and intensity, until it entered my heart, becoming “a burning core of care”—those were the words that came to me as this force burned with a ferocity of intent that I have never known. My grandmother’s hand stone was hot, almost too hot to hold. Opening my eyes, I opened my hand. The stone was shattered inside, with dozens of fracture lines appearing that had not been there before. It didn’t make sense. My eye focused on a particularly large and complex fracture that occurred at the intersection where the deepest purple merged with the brightest, clearest part of the crystal. Within that broken angle, it appeared brown, burnt. I lifted the crystal up toward the light, and therein, I saw a flame.

I have no explanation for this other than to say that what was burning in me burned through the gemstone in my hand, shattering it. The energy I felt rising from the Earth through the soles of my feet and from Round Mountain itself reached directly into my heart with the radiance of a million prayers circulating around the planet and in that moment created a fire in me of inexhaustible light.

In my desire to understand my own unraveling in this global pandemic, I could not have imagined that it would be my grandmother’s golden thread that would lead me to the source of both my undoing and becoming: isolation and engagement. The golden thread became the gilded sunlight woven into the wings of the great blue heron fishing along the banks of the Dolores River. This same shimmering thread exposed the facts that deciphered the toxic residues from abandoned mines and uranium tailings which are poisoning our rivers, poisoning us, and killing creatures. In a similar way, it cinched the illegal wildlife trade that taunted wet markets with “bush meat,” ripe with tainted blood, a spillover causing a global virus infecting us all, threatening what we have taken for granted: Life.

This golden strand reveals what binds awe and terror together, as it travels through shadow and light—illuminating the loose threads waiting to be picked up by each of us so we can mend, repair, and restore what has come apart. We can reweave the world anew, not from the places of fear and doubt, but from the intimate spaces of belonging we must retrieve for ourselves. We are Earth unraveling and reforming creation. We are meant to engage not isolate. These are difficult days. What causes us to recoil, strike, and retreat is also what allows us to reach out from the anxiety of unknowing and dare to trust what is to come—a reassembling of our humanity.

There is something deeper than hope. Between the hours of darkness and dawn, the voices of our ancestors are amplified in the dreamtime—warning us of our awakening wisdom—a blessing to behold and a burden to enact.

[infelixxanima]

Okay but I live for kid kai and vittoria. but then..WHAT IF SHE DIES? i need that angst

@ofbacteria [[i suck at writing things like this but hahaha i still hurt my own feelings gdi]]

At the time, the street wasn’t that busy. The late evening was always the best time to venture away from home. Less interactions. Less noise. 

Or as she pitched it to the young boy walking beside her, less people.

The evening air was cool and the sun hung low and hazy in the sky. The perfect end to a fall day complete with full bellies of orange chicken finished off with ice cream. It had, in all definition, the perfect day. 

Until the hero showed up. 

She’d felt him more than saw him, that unmistakable itch under her skin she often got when she realized someone was watching her. They had gone two blocks and he was never outside of her line of view until the passed beyond the flower shop, and suddenly he was there.

Bright grin. Brighter eyes. Focus fully on Kai. 

      “Heya kid! Haven’t seen you out and about much! How ya been?!” 

Vittoria bristled now that they’ve been forced to stop in their tracks. She had plastered her ‘I’m normal’ smile on as best as she could but that didn’t stop her lips from curling into more for a sneer. Honestly, so friendly. The hero spoke as if he talked to Kai every day. 

    That triggered her annoyance quickly.

She’d learned through bits and pieces about Kai’s life through what he was willing to disclose. She never pushed, but whatever he willfully gave up to her, she guarded like a secret. And what she did know did nothing but fuel her dislike of the hero community even more.

Oh sure, she praised Kai, urged him to take his quirk to become a hero because he could do far better than the fakes and the flaky smiles the hero community had become. Kai had the potential to be a real hero. Make a real difference. 

He could be better than all of them. 

Kai’s unbothered gaze does make her choke back a chuckle, yet despite that, that hero seemed unfazed. She knew the method, she knew how they worked. Children were special cases.

    They taught you how to deal with that. 

Cut off line of sight, inject a line of questioning that is strictly yes or no. Simple rules in a game Vittoria sought to play a long long time ago. 

He was pissing her off. 

     “Pardon me, but we really must be going--”

      “No, you’re not.” 

The words take her back for a second, the hard gaze she’s under one that’s too familiar to ignore. The community knew who she was....and shunned her for it. She hardly ever needed to venture outside of her home but when she did, it was always the same. 

      She’s too pretty for a quirk like that.                                 How did she get so unlucky.                                               She’s practically inhuman.        She’s a witch. No one could be cursed with something like that.                            That’s no hero quirk, that’s for sure.

And all of them wore a look of scrutiny. Of disappointment. 

     “We’re leaving,” she states firmly but the hero throws his arm out and she has to scoff. 

      “If you think he’s the one who needs protecting,” she muttered, “You’re wrong.” 

She could see the look in Kai’s face, one slowly wrinkling into one of exhaustion. She knew that look, when he was becoming absolutely done with a situation and that meant he’d react one of two ways. 

Best to move this along before he chose the more bloody of the two.

    “Let’s go,” she urges and Kai goes to step around and leave (such a stupid situation, stupid heroes) when the hero’s hand reaches for Kai, a split second, intent to snatch him away when her fingers intercept, wrapping tightly around the hero’s wrist. 

The interaction had been so fast, and now it was obvious exactly how pissed she’d become.

       “I hope you don’t think you were going to touch him. I’d advise against that if you please. We’ve had a good evening, and we are going to go home sir. I thank you kindly for your concern, but there’s nothing to worry about here. You may move along.” 

The silence that befell them was deafening but she knew the way the world seemed to shift, how the energy suddenly became electric that the hero simply wouldn’t let this be. 

     “Let me rephrase my intent. I didn’t come here because I thought the child needed saving. We’ve been keeping an eye on him, Kai Chisaki. We keep an eye on all registered quirk users with quirks that fall on the less...appealing side. We know about you, Vittoria Brisbane. And we decided there was no way we could allow this interaction to occur. While your quirk is dangerous...his is destructive.”

She felt it before he said it, right down in her gut.

                          They’re going to take him away.

She was moving before she realized it. The black tendril cracked like a whip, sharp and precise. It was only to take the hero off guard, slicing into the flesh of his cheek, if only to give them the very small chance of escape. He recoils with a shout and there’s their chance.

     “Run!” 

She knows they aren’t going to get far, and even though she’s thankful she knows the ins and outs of this town like the back of her hand, stops Kai at the entrance to an alleyway. Out of the small bag she’d been carrying Vittoria pulls out the plague mask. It’s clear she’d ....applied some creative license to the cheap little mask. Kai watches with lidded eyes as he sucks in a few quick breaths. She kneels down to his level...and offers it to him.

     “We only have a few seconds and if he takes you there’s no telling where you’ll go. I know the alleyway is filthy and dark and the last place you plan on running into, but I need you to do that for me.” 

She presses it intently into his hands. The hero is approaching at a surprisingly fast clip too. 

     “Go! Left, Left Right!” 

He didn’t want to. Even as he pulled the mask onto his face (oh...it smelled like the lavender incense she sometimes burned in the house) he knew he had to. The hero barreled into Vittoria the second she stepped away, both of them tumbling to the pavement. He watched the way the shadows  wavered dangerously around them. Watched as tendrils wrapped around the hero’s neck. Saw those eyes tint black, and skin tear from flesh as the corner of her lips tore away to make way for the sharp rows of teeth gleaming underneath. 

Her head snapped in his direction and he didn’t need to hear another word. Not when more people were gathering around from inside of shops and their homes. More heroes would be coming. 

The alleyway was dark for certain and Kai could feel the disgust creeping under his skin. Left, left, right, she had yelled. Even now as he jogged (god damn it how long was this alleyway) he made the first left, then another. As he made the right at the end, he could see the street. Freedom from that disease infected alleyway! 

And if he knew that coffee shop that meant Vittoria’s home was just around the corner and --

He’d just made it out onto the sidewalk, relief evident in the way his shoulders raised then fell, heaving in a deep breath of fresh air when the sickening thud of Vittoria crashed down at his feet. It took a moment, staring down the mask to really take in what he saw. Tendrils seemed to explode from her as if an extension of her body, far into the air. What could she?

It was the squelch of flesh that made him flinch, drew him back to reality. She’d been drawing the hero from the air, yanking him down toward her and ...onto her.

Neither one of them moved  and it wasn’t until his mind registered her well manicured fingers protruding from the back of the hero did he realize precisely what he was witnessing. 

      “V--” 

His voice was muffled but she still turned her head toward him. Her other hand was gripping her stomach? Her chest? Her--Oh. Oh he had a sword. Perhaps as a last attempt to fend off the ‘evil’ he had shouted as they raced across rooftops, he knew he would die and would only do so peacefully if he took her with him. 

      “Hey kid--you okay?”

Even with that dopey grin of hers, bloody tinting the corner of her lips, she still looked....fucking happy. 

“Go home,’” she wheezed.

“You’re coming too, right? Get up.” This wasn’t funny. She was playing a game with him, one he wasn’t particularly interested in. 

     “Sorry but I don’t think I’ll be with you this time,” she whispered, arching her back only to make things worse. The sound made his stomach flip. She flopped back down with a wet cough and a chuckle. “I’m going to die.” 

     “That’s stupid coming from someone who doesn’t like to give up, you don’t mind doing it now.”

      “Hmmn--you’ve said that to me before, remember?” 

She seemed contemplative, the blackness seeping away from her eyes revealing hers underneath. She looked...tired. And that was a first. 

       “Just when I found a reason for living--” she scoffed, sending her into a coughing fit and oh christ that was alot of blood. He took a step back and she still gave him a weary grin. 

      “Can I ask for somethin? Just one thing,” she breathed. “No matter what they do, Kai Chisaki, you do not give up. You’re so good. So intelligent. Don’t let it go to waste. ‘kay?” 

       “Being your mom was the best thing I could ever have.”

       “You aren’t my real mom.”

       “You made me feel like I was.”

That blinding smile was goddamn unchanged by the pain that crawled through her, ate at her until she had to acknowledge it. One last thing, before she took that last breath.

      “Was holdin’ onto this cause...just cause but, I love you, Kai. And you’ll be alright. I promise--” 

And that was it. 

Even as he demanded she get up. Put the heel of his foot to her cheek to get her to wake up, just like last time, she didn’t budge. They were like some sick statue, her and the hero speared on top of her, lifeless. 

He called her stupid. He called her weird. He yelled. Yelled until his voice was hoarse and people who had been groupies to this sudden fight were making their way toward him and this...mess. 

Blood oozed out from her chest, a gaping wound wrapped around the sharp blade of the hero’s sword. It was spilling into the street, tainting it. He tries to refuse the angry sting of tears in his eyes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and left. 

Vittoria’s home was empty. 

Just that.

      Empty. 

That’s all he heard, just the silence. There’s no humming from her while she cleaned. Not the soft sound of her footsteps or the occasional curse when she stubs her toe on the same love seat every single time she rushes past it. His fingers are shaking. 

He is shaking.

 Alone again. Alone forever? He’s getting so fucking sick of this. His body is vibrating with all that’s happened and not quite able to processes it he makes the slow ascent up the stairs to his room. It almost..almost feels normal. He doesn’t look down the hallway because if he does,  he’ll see her shut bedroom door.

It’s never shut, not when he’s there.

The bed offers so solace. No warmth. No...anything. And he’s still right there when night turns to morning and he breaths in the fading scent of lavender form his mask, obsessively twiddling the vibrant green gemstone that hung loosely around his neck. 

[bubble-tea-bunny]

until the night collapses

[leon s kennedy x reader]

author’s note: leon is hella good looking in the remake and my eyes have been blessed

word count: 3,056

Driving through rain, especially at night, always warrants extra caution. As such, Leon’s foot is steady on the gas, having been cruising at a comfortable speed for the past several miles. The roads have been mostly devoid of traffic, though he had passed one or two cars going the other direction. It’s an emptiness he’d considered a little strange at first, but he’s quick to brush it off. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to worry about anyone tailing him before swerving to the opposite lane to pass. A downpour still wasn’t enough for some people to slow down. But when he pulls into the Mizoil gas station to fill the tank, he learns the rain is the least of his problems.

It’s a hell of a first day, that’s for sure. He thought he was the only one at the station with a still beating heart (at least after watching an Arklay County officer get a nasty bite to the neck from… something, which left him good as dead) until Claire had shown up. A stroke of luck would have the keys still in the ignition of the police cruiser, and they were off.

If someone asked him what he would’ve expected his welcome to Raccoon City to be like, he couldn’t give a straight answer, but it definitely isn’t this. Abandoned cars are pulled over to either side of the street, and he drives through the open center, intended for emergency vehicles no longer anywhere in sight. Eventually even that’s blocked off, and in a fit of timing he struggles to say was good or not, the welcome committee arrives in the form of a fuel truck narrowly crushing the car to scrap metal. It kills any of the zombies trying to pry the doors open to get to him and Claire, but the force of the collision throws him forward, and his head collides with the steering wheel none too nicely. If he were to look into a mirror right now, he’d see a nasty bruise darkening on his forehead. He doesn’t need to see it to know it’s there, for light pressure applied to the offended area with the tips of his fingers and the ensuing throb let him know just as well.

This last hour had merely been the tip of the very large, very precarious iceberg. The fire caused by the cruiser exploding gave him no choice but to split up with Claire. Arriving at, and diving within, the museum turned police department is his personal journey down the rabbit hole, but this is no Wonderland on the other side. Or maybe it is and the author of the whole sick story had a fucked up sense of humor. But what did he know? If this was a book he was only a character, at the mercy of the words and whatever would follow with each turn of the page.

He’s seen more death and gore than anyone should have to see, and it’s a level of carnage he can’t help but recoil at. Being a police officer requires not only an iron will but an iron stomach, but he thinks he should be given a pass this time. Fighting his way through hordes of undead as he tries to find out what the hell is going on was not listed in the job description. When he’s trekking down what feels like the millionth dark corridor, blood and guts stuck to the bottom of his boots, he muses half with cynicism and half with fatigue, for it has been a long night, that maybe it’s because if it had been mentioned, no one would apply. And maybe there are some who would jump at the chance to play hero, but in the end logic wins out and prompts many of them to stay away, since it’s something else entirely to be thrown into the mess and realize one is vastly outnumbered, and against an enemy with nothing to fear.

At the west office, he cracks the first smile in what feels like an eternity. It’s a small one, followed closely by a quiet chuckle at the scene before him. Streamers dangle from the ceiling, and a banner stretches across from one wall to the other: Welcome Leon. He reads the note on his desk and feels a twinge in his chest. These were supposed to be his colleagues. Life would’ve been so different if the keep away message hadn’t been sent to him a week prior, if there hadn’t been a reason to stay out of the city and the wheels were still turning like they’re meant to.

He passes by one of the desks, and his flashlight passes over a nameplate with your name on it. Your workspace, much like the others here, is thrown in disarray. Papers are scattered and various trinkets you had to decorate the area are broken. There are sticky notes still stuck to the edge of the shelf attached to your desk, some of them quick reminders of tasks to do and others silly notes from your fellow officers.  

Cracked glass hidden in the shadowy corner grabs his attention, and he reaches a hand out for it. His fingers curl around a wooden frame, which he gingerly picks up, mindful of the sharp point of the glass. This must be you in the photo. You’re in a graduation uniform, diploma in one hand and your dog held in the other. It’s not looking at the camera, but rather up at you, who smile widely, a toothy grin that reaches your eyes. The time stamp in the bottom right corner indicates this is a recent photo.

There’s so much personality at your desk, and in your bright gaze captured forever in a picture, that for a moment he swears he feels less alone. He feels like he knows you. Maybe he’d be one of the officers to write small notes to tack to your desk, or maybe you would do that to his. Maybe he would’ve met your dog. What’s its name, he wonders?

With a sigh he sets the frame back down, and reality rushes back, and he hopes he won’t see your body laying around somewhere, discarded and almost unrecognizable. Chances are high that you’ve been infected and haven’t survived, but all the same, he doesn’t want to come across you. He’s not sure why he wants to grasp so tightly onto the image of your smile, and to not allow it to be tainted by visions of a corpse. Perhaps it’s because it’s his last hold to something humane, to something that could help retain his sanity in the midst of the chaos. Lieutenant Branagh had already succumbed to his wounds, and Claire was nowhere to be found. Leon doesn’t know if she’s still alive. So all that left was you.

Ada turning up proves he isn’t the only one remaining in the whole building with his wits still about him, and with his heart and brain in tact. She isn’t keen on sharing much information, and what little she divulges only raises more questions. He couldn’t have begun to guess what caused this shit storm. All of it sounds crazy, but judging by Ada’s tone, this is no tall tale.

They had stumbled upon Annette Birkin. There’s no better word for it. They train their guns on her, and Leon thinks to himself that she doesn’t seem threatening, and definitely not as dangerous as Ada had made her out to be. But maybe that’s how it goes. The most dangerous could be the least assuming. He doesn’t know to what lengths she will go to protect the G-Virus, but he’s not left speculating for long, for she brandishes her own gun and opens fire, and he doesn’t hesitate running towards Ada, shielding her and bringing them both to the ground.

The bullet in his shoulder registers as a low burn, and his vision is becoming hazy. It becomes difficult to ignore the pain, and he remembers telling Ada to go after Annette before passing out from shock. He hadn’t even been aware of the transition from consciousness to unconsciousness. He was simply awake, though weakening fast, and then he wasn’t.

Now he’s in a house, one he doesn’t recognize. The sun is shining outside, and his feet are carrying him through the hallway like they have a mind of their own, for he isn’t willing himself to walk. He just is. They bring him to a bedroom where the curtains are drawn back, the light flooding in a bit too intense to be normal. The edges of everything are out of focus and no matter how many times he blinks, they stay fuzzy.

I was wondering where you went. The figure in the bed sits up slightly to look at him better. Your hair is ruffled and you watch him with a sleep-riddled grin. He knows he should be surprised to see you there. None of this is adding up. This isn’t real. But he’s not deterred by any such thoughts as he smiles back like this is the way things always were.

He crawls beneath the sheets to join you, apologizing while he does. Sorry. At first he wasn’t certain if he actually was in control, or if he was only watching everything play out like a movie, like there was a script. But if it had at the start been the latter, it was now the former, as he starts to play along, eyes sliding closed as you lean in to kiss him. The spot where your lips meet is warm, and his arms curl around you to bring you closer.

Once you pull away, you murmur that you love him, and he feels his heart stop. He brings a hand up to caress your cheek, where a rosy flush has settled, and says he loves you too. This prompts you to smile that beautiful smile of yours, and it’s still just as captivating when tinged with fatigue. He runs his thumb across your bottom lip, smooth and plush, and he wants to kiss you again so he does.

In the back of his mind he knows this isn’t real, but God, he wishes it were. His fingers tangle in your hair, his free hand sneaking beneath the oversized shirt you wear to run along the heated skin of your waist, and everything feels fine. Everything feels perfect. He’s reminded of that saying, of one’s life flashing before their eyes, and he wonders if this is it. Or something close. Because this isn’t the past. He doesn’t know what it is. It would seem he had held on to you so securely that he’s started to dream of you. His stomach is doing flips like a cage of butterflies has just been let loose, and you’re smiling again, and it’s the flower they’re all searching for.

Are you okay? you inquire gently, brushing his hair from his eyes.

He stares into the depths of your own and they feel so much like home that he’s not pretending anymore. His chest is bursting with a love that feels too real to be mere imagination. And he starts to believe it, that life has always been this way, and would always be this way, and he’s just had a bad dream he won’t trouble you by sharing. He doesn’t want you to worry. Yeah, I’m okay.

Maybe this is his life flashing before his eyes, but it’s less about life in the sense of all the years gone by, and more about life in the form of a person, of the one who means the most to him. And despite knowing so little about you, his subconscious pulls at the image of you he stored away, bringing it to the forefront so that he’s convinced you are his life. That’s why he sees you now, and why he desperately clings on, to this blissful moment, suspended in time. He never wants to let go.

It’s also why he feels so helplessly hollow when he finally wakes—reluctantly, and with a heaviness closing in on his heart. He’s back in the cold corridor, back in the station, sitting up against the hard wall with Ada’s trench coat acting as a makeshift shock blanket and his injury wrapped with gauze stained dark red. You’re in his periphery, your warmth and your smile gradually fading away, and he’s thinking Don’t go or maybe he’s said it out loud, muttered to the air with a cracked voice.

They say things get worse before they better, but in this case, they get so bad Leon doubts there could be any improvement. He ventures lower underground, in pursuit of Annette and the G-Virus. He fights monsters he never thought could exist outside horror movies, and uncovers truths he had suspected but that he wanted to hope weren’t true at all. If Annette’s words were not sufficient confirmation, the fact he’s staring down the barrel of Ada’s firearm is.

Suddenly a gunshot rings through the air and a bullet sinks into Ada’s skin, but Leon hadn’t fired. Twisting around, he gets a short glimpse of Annette before the bridge collapses and the G-Virus sample tumbles down to the depths below, but Leon grabs Ada before she can fall too. Attempts to pull her up put stress on the already unstable bridge and it sinks to an even sharper angle, and he spits out a curse of frustration.

The two of them can’t remain like that forever, however, and he feels his hold slipping. Ada doesn’t look worried, wants him to let go because otherwise, they both die. It’s not worth it. But to Leon it is, and he knows she’d never understand why. He had to let go of you and leave you behind once he returned to consciousness, and it had hurt more than it should have. So perhaps he’s thinking of you as he holds onto Ada, for he doesn’t want to go through that again. This time, he won’t let go.

But reality is quite literally crashing down around them and the reality is he’s holding on to Ada, not you. And her wrist slides out of his grip, and she disappears in the darkness. He stares into the abyss, extending so far it’s like there is no end. His breaths come out rushed due to adrenaline, corners of his eyes pooling with tears refusing to fall, but there’s no time to mourn as he kicks himself into gear, standing and moving to steadier ground. The self-destruct sequence has begun. He doesn’t have long to get out.

His way of escape is at the bottom level of the lab, and he’s shooting his way through hordes of zombies when he hears it: echoes of another firing into the packs of undead. He follows it, thinking it’s Claire, but it’s not. He stops firing in his surprise, and he’s caught so off guard he’s unable to even exclaim your name in a quiet huff of disbelief under his breath.

You catch sight of him, and not letting yourself become distracted at finding someone else still alive in here, you call out The exit is up ahead! You haven’t noticed his shock, a second he spends looking like a deer caught in headlights, for you’re too preoccupied with other more urgent matters to have done so. Leon forces himself to look away and help take down the remainder of the zombies blocking the path. Past the exit door, the lights of a train begin flashing on the walls, and at the first opening, you sprint through, Leon following close behind.

His wider strides let him catch up to you, and he’s first to hop onto the train, grabbing the bar to swing himself up. Then he holds a hand out to you, stretching as far as he can. Come on! There’s an explosion and the building starts to crumble, and the strength of the blast pushes you forward. With a lunge, you thrust your arm out to grab onto his hand, and he pulls you up with the last bit of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Both of you collapse against the train car, breathing hard. Leon’s in rough shape, but you’re no better. You’re littered with cuts and bruises, your clothes are filthy, and your tied up hair is half falling out of the ponytail you had it in. It’s silent for a while as both of you calm down, and then Leon sneaks a glance at you. A part of him had still been skeptical that it could be true, that you’ve been alive this whole time, but it’s unmistakable. He’d burned that photo of you into his brain, and it’s a match, and he knows he’s not imagining you here next to him.

As though you can feel him staring, which you most probably do, you look over at him and meet his eyes. Now that you’re breathing normally again, you speak quietly, the fatigue finally setting in.

“Lucky we got out just in time.” You smile, and Leon’s heart is twisting to see it for real, and it’s more amazing than what he’d seen in the picture, or in his dream. He never wants you to stop looking at him like that. He wants to get lost in that gentle curve and in your soft gaze. After the hell he’s been through, he thinks he could fall asleep in them forever.

He chuckles. “Yeah, it is.”

He introduces himself and holds a hand out, and you tell him your name as you shake it. Without even fully realizing it, he’s grinning with a fondness that could only come from familiarity and a fulfilled longing, and he states Nice to meet you, [Name]. It’s really something to be saying your name out loud. It feels perfect on his tongue, his lips curling around each syllable with incredible care, like he’s reciting a prayer.

Maybe what he’d dreamed wasn’t what could’ve been; maybe it was what will be. And as the train rushes out of the ruined city and you drift off in well-deserved rest, head drooping to lean on Leon’s shoulder, he knows he’s already in love with you.

[creeping-crowley]

♰ Angel at My Shoulder ♰

12:46

44 minutes until lunch with Aziraphale.

The day had not yet gotten to the eventful part as Crowley went about minding his own business tending to the veritable trembling rainforest that made up his London flat. A careful golden eye was fixed on the time. Not too carefully, mind, for a fashionably late entrance was often favourable for the demon. After all, quaint little lunches and well-timed teas were Aziraphale’s fancy- it only felt right for the angel to remain the one appearing as the most outwardly keen of the two.

The lunch was what Crowley had planned for. What he had not planned for was the driving pull that sucked his essence out of the London flat with the force that one might be pulled from an aeroplane should the door be opened mid-flight. A forest of fearful foliage had now been replaced with candles, the smell of chalk, old cedar, books a few ages old and a pot of salt in the far corner by the door. The distinctive smell of burning sage tainted the air, making it cloud up as though someone had failed catastrophically at cooking something. Why did everyone seem to burn sage these days as though it could fright the devil? Plants had no godly power over the satanic realms or those who dabbled in them. If anything, (thanks to Crowley) plants possessed a healthy fear for the demonic and would likely ask to be removed from any supernatural settings whatsoever should they have the ability to express any opinion.

Collecting himself in a disorientated haze, Crowley stumbled, drunk on the sensation of the room spinning and the assault over the senses that all the items within seemed to cause.  It certainly wasn’t hell. The stench wasn’t anywhere near bad enough. Besides, hell didn’t smell like…Were those vanilla candles? Crowley grimaced in disgust.

Why did some fool have to be performing an evocation today?

The woman looked like a witch. Well as much as a woman with long hair, an extensive candle collection and sage bundles could as she stood facing him, clutching a bible to her chest. Did witches keep bibles?

“I call upon the demon whom holds the name Crowley.”

A slow sinking sensation settled upon the demon as he watched the reverse exorcism play out. Evocations had been a phenomenon that humans dipped their toes into less in the modern age, but it was not entirely unheard of. Crowley had never been subject to a direct summoning, however. It was not an honour. It was a chore. A dangerous one, at that.

An instinctive dislike of the space had Crowley’s feet prowling, attempting to pace (as much as the small expanse would allow). In a somewhat rash endeavour, he tested the boundary with a precursory flick of a finger- a flick that proved startlingly sore as though he had stuck his finger into a white-hot coal as it approached the barrier of the circle. With a hiss, the demon snatched the appendage back, popping it into his mouth as a moody child does with a lolly to take the sting away.

Ah.

Perhaps this was some sort of cruel retribution for the total tits-up of Armageddon. Some attempt to bind him to the world he cherished so much, to imprison him there as some sort of genie in a summoning circle, or other novelty for humans to enjoy and him to…enjoy less.

Crowley’s face slipped into a flat glare.

“You know, most god-loving people don’t dabble like this. Trust me when I tell you that God doesn’t tend to like dabbling.” If the bible was anything to go off, this woman seemed to have some value for scripture. Crowley could work with that.

Crowley merely dabbled with Adam and Eve, reminding them of their will of choice.

He had also dabbled with God’s plan (Or had it all been part of God’s plan?).

He had dabbled with Lucifer and the gang. (It had only been once. Well. Once before he had been outcast entirely, that was).

The demon had dabbled with earth (On multiple occasions. Dabbling on earth had become a favourite pastime of his).

Crowley had also dabbled with Aziraphale. (A treacherous occupation as far as both sides were concerned).

One could not get through life without dabbling, but if Crowley could convince the woman stood before him otherwise, then he would take every measure to accomplish such a feat. After all, as far as dabbling went, God’s rules were more stringent than others.

“God didn’t answer my prayer.”

Oh.

“Satan answered my prayers. He gave me your name directly.”

…Oh.

Well this was a remarkable little plot twist. One that inspired a little more hope than his latter presumption. Yes, there was rather the unfortunate mention of him directly by Satan, but he wasn’t dealing directly with Satan. He was dealing directly with a human.

A low, stirring sound brewed about Crowley’s voice as his bemusement furrowed his expression into a tangible question mark.  

“Listen, if demon hostages worked the whole world would be doing it. I don’t do the ‘three wishes’ thing. Not my brand.”

Steadily, the demon began to slink towards the threshold, punctuating his words in a low snarl.

“I don’t do good things. I don’t do favours. I don’t even take suggestions. So if you think that summoning a demon will get you whatever you were asking from God then I think you’ll find that you’re—”

A sharp action from the woman caused Crowley to bite his tongue. Quite literally. It was probably for the best, because as the demon had set about plastering himself as close to the threshold as he could get, the woman had become more and more tempted to throw the substance from the vial in her pocket over him and start over. For an awkward stretch the vial remained upheld , shaking a little from the weight of her arm and perhaps some nerves as she held it aloft as one does with a gun they have no clue how to fire.

Yellow eyes could not help but widen a touch.

Holy water.

Why, oh why, did it have to be today?

“Where the hea—” Crowley fumbled, correcting himself amidst the acrid unmistakable smell of the water. “—Hell did you get that?”

When Crowley had previously used the word ‘hostage’ he had intended it as a joke. It appeared, however, that the subject of his misfortune, had not.

“I’m not going to summon a demon without having some means to protect myself.”

“Oh yes, that’s very good. Very clever, really.” Crowley drawled mildly with a condescending note slithering through his words.

“A bit of overkill, you could say since I’M STUCK IN A CHALK CIRCLE!”  It was laughably humiliating, although Crowley was not laughing. If any of his comrades could see him now, they would be howling with laughter. A demon tethered to a human floor as a dog is tied outside of a shop. It was a new low for Crowley, one which he appreciated the lack of audience for.

Somewhere far away in the dim light of his London flat, the plants breathed a sigh of relief at his sudden absence. And somewhere within the flat was a clock, and the clock struck one hour into the afternoon, chiming a loud scream into the empty marble halls.

13:00

30 minutes until lunch with Aziraphale.

The woman had winced at the shout, but seemingly realised that discorporating the very being she sought out would be rather wasteful. She had noted the efficiency within which the chalk playground appeared to confine Crowley and this inspired faith in her boldness. She had heard of how demons liked to trick those who summoned them, worming their way out of their confines and infecting the space in which they were summoned.

Demons, like most twisted things were often favourable at a price. The same goes for Satan. In giving the demon Crowley’s name to the human, he had imparted his own price upon her. Once the use of the demon Crowley was done, she was to add the holy water to the chalk and draw a new circle about him to close the séance – to get rid of him, as it were. To ensure her safety, just as she was so conscious of doing. Nobody wanted a demon lingering around after that sort of thing, usually.

Throughout his frustrations a thought did occur to Crowley. If the woman was not on the side of God, then perhaps she would be easier to influence into creating a more lenient agreement regarding the confinement. Humans were awfully stupid at times, and weren’t half as well versed on the capabilities of demons as those who were demons. The only downside was that bargaining with the human would take time. And he didn’t have time. He had a lunch to get to.

He’d ask her for a drink. A tea. Perhaps even a coffee. That was what a good host did, after all, except he had visions of her boiling a nice hot cup of holy water before adding the rest and the thought was enough to make his stomach churn.

Slowly, the demon settled (as much as one could when standing in a cramped slightly asymmetrical circle). His wings folded neatly between his shoulders, taking care not to touch the threshold. The woman stood there expectantly, almost as though waiting out the tantrum of a small child. Piercing golden eyes scanned the room, scanned the doors, scanned the windows, scanned the nearby books. Moodily, Crowley slumped into a posture that spoke less of  ‘I want to maul you’ and more of ‘I am a human who has not slept in a week’. If anger and arguments won, he would be discorporated at worst and severely delayed at best. It was time to change tactics. It was time to adapt a little.

13:37

7 minutes late.

“Fine. What do you want?” The voice was tired, but not without residual irritation that bubbled beneath the surface.

Just humour it long enough to find an out. That’s all that needs to be done.

“My grandfather died. And I need you to bring him back.”

The demon’s nose wrinkled.

Now. There was an obvious out within this scenario- one that many a demon would pick up on quite swiftly. A dead body was a perfect soulless vessel- one that could possibly transcend the bond of the initial summoning. It was an out. A gross out. But a possibility.

It did not, however, appeal to Crowley, who was in an awful rush and fond of cutting corners.

“That’s it? That’s what you want?” Serpentine eyes tested the woman’s for a long moment as his mind wove about a solution for himself.

“…I’m going to need something that belonged to him.” Ah yes, the fabled art of a tether- it was ridiculous in most cases, but humans seemed to think it made sense.

“An old tie, a sock, perhaps a gold chain or a pair of sunglasses…” A glimmer of hope caught in the woman’s eyes and she took off, turning to focus on her mission of finding a suitable article from the deceased whilst Crowley continued his spiral through the five stages of grief at his containment. By the time she began searching the second room, Crowley was sat cross-legged on the floor, one hand cradling his cheek in a tableau of swallowed impatience. Soon the woman would come back. Soon he would demand she gave him the article she had found. And she would. She did, after all, agree that it made sense for some part of her grandfather’s essence be included in the ritual. What she was not accounting for, by the demon’s reluctant act of compliance was that within his plan all along was the part where he waited for her to break the confines of the circle by means of delivering any object or appendance through.

Quietly, the demon’s spare hand began to tap a soft rhythm onto the floorboards.

Somewhere distant in a restaurant a clock ticked to the same rhythm.

13:59

(( @gaily-gavotte ))

[carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich]

A while ago I wrote out how I imagined the endings of a couple of love triangle routes (with two of the boys and the reader) might go for some friends in private. I had a lot of fun doing it (because I love coming up with tragic endings) so I thought I might write one here. Warning for angst and character death. Also this is written in the style of a route summary rather than a full piece of writing.

How I imagine the endings in a Reiji versus Shin route in a DL game going down:

Set up:  After being sent to the Sakamakis as a sacrificial bride, you choose to spend most of your time with Reiji. In spite of his harsh punishment, you find that you come to like the uptight vampire and he finds you to be more agreeable than many of the brides they’ve had previously.

One night, Shin appears and kidnaps you. He reveals that your heart is that of a founder and that he needs to remove the vampire taint from your blood so that he can use it. 

Carla’s Endzeit is in the final stages and so Shin purifies your blood himself and, while he’s cruel to you, you can’t help but feel sorry for him. When Carla dies, you end up helping him cope and Shin starts to see you as more than just a tool.

Reiji’s not about to let you be taken away however, but he quickly realizes that he doesn’t have enough power to take you back from Shin.

In order to gain the power to defeat a founder, Reiji realizes he will have to kill Karlheinz, so he goes to Eden.

Brute ending: Karlheinz refuses to so much as even show himself to Reiji, stating that as he has not truly obtained Eve, he cannot become Adam and therefore would not be able to kill Karl anyway.

Frustrated, Reiji heads to Banmaden and challenges Shin to a sword fight. Although he lands a couple of hits on Shin, he is ultimately no match for the first blood. After being badly injured, Reiji reveals that before they fought, he coated his blade with samples of Endzeit he’d obtained from Karlheinz’s lab, so that one way or another, Shin would be forced to hand you over as it would be in your best interests.

Shin doesn’t believe him and beheads Reiji before you can stop him. You continue to live with him in Banmaden as he works on purifying your blood so that he can restore the founder lineage. Within a few months however, Shin starts to develop the first symptoms of Endzeit and he realizes Reiji was telling the truth and that he’s been infected. Out of fear of you somehow catching it and knowing that he’ll soon die, Shin takes you to the Tsukinami mansion in the human world. 

After spending one last day with you, he tells you that he has to take care of some business in the demon world but he’ll be back soon. Even though you try to come with him at first, he eventually convinces you to stay behind. Days pass but he doesn’t return, so you go to the passage to the demon world in the Tsukinami house only to find it sealed. It’s then you realize that Shin was never intending to come back and that you’ve been left all alone in the human world.

Manservant ending: Karlheinz appears before Reiji but notes that you are not with him and that it is unlikely Reiji will be able to defeat him. The two fight and while Reiji manages to significantly weaken Karl, in the end he is defeated, although not killed. 

Karl is in the middle of telling Reiji that unfortunately it appears he cannot become Adam when Shin appears from nowhere and is able to stab Karl through the heart now that Reiji has weakened him. Having pure demon blood, Shin is able to fulfill the criteria for being Adam and takes Karl’s powers. 

He reveals that he had his familiars watching Reiji’s movements and that when he found out Reiji was heading to Eden, he realized what the vampire was about to do and saw it as a golden opportunity to kill Karlheinz and dispose of Reiji in one go. 

Reiji asks Shin if you know where he is and if he thinks you’ll forgive him for this. Shin tells him that you’re still in Banmaden, being guarded by his familiars and that he has no intention of letting you find out what he’s about to do as, regrettably, you still seem to be fond of Reiji.

Reiji tells him that you won’t be so easily deceived but Shin dismisses him and kills him using his newly gained powers.

When he returns to Banmaden, he tells you that Reiji was killed by Karlheinz before he got there. Shin then uses Karl’s powers to take back the hegemony of the demon world, becoming not just the king of the founders, but effectively the ruler over all of the demon clans. He marries you and, although you’re saddened by Reiji’s death, you decide to pursue a happy future with Shin.

Vampire ending: Karlheinz agrees to face Reiji in a duel and Reiji actually manages to defeat him. Before he dies, Karl transfers his power to Reiji and tells him to reunite with Eve. 

Reiji confronts Shin in Banmaden and is able to overpower him.  Before Reiji can kill Shin however, you put yourself between them and tell him that although you want to be him, you don’t want Shin to die regardless. 

Shin says that it’s better for him to die than bow down to one of the other sub-races, especially a vampire, and if you won’t be with him then he won’t be able to carry on the founder race anyway. You plead with him to live but he replies that you’ve already made your choice and it’s not him. 

Reiji on the other hand, has no intention of fulfilling Shin’s wish, stating that death is not punishment enough for stealing you away. Before you can react, Reiji takes hold of you and teleports you outside of Banmaden. There’s a flash of light and he reveals that he’s placed the same seal on Banmaden as his father did and that as you wished, Shin will still live, but he won’t be able to bother the two of you anymore.

Reiji takes over as the vampire king and promises you that he will never let you be taken away from him again.

[theateared]

                            HEADCANON  101  :  SELF  PERCEPTION.

A pretty upsetting but  CRUCIAL  element of Murr’s character has to do with how he views himself.  It shapes a lot of his interactions, even if only from a narrative standpoint, and I can’t expect people to know about it if I don’t explore it in posts of my own so here goes:

              MURR  THINKS  HE’S  SOME  SORT  OF  ‘DEMON / MONSTER’.

It isn’t as clear-cut as ‘a creature from hell possessed my body’ or ‘the devil tainted me’, nor is it even strictly a ‘demon’ that’s causing him trouble, but it inevitably has  SOME  religious connotations  (  of course, in relation to  HURON,  not Earth  ).  This pattern of thought stemmed from a few things, which I’ll do my best to go through in an organised fashion below:

MENTAL  HEALTH:  One of Huron’s biggest flaws is that there is no understanding of mental illness.  Though they have some excellent doctors and are as advanced as anybody in terms of physical treatments, ‘’brain science’’ isn’t an avenue they’ve explored yet.   This is because a large majority of Huron is actually incredibly happy, given their communal, simple lifestyles.  Because of this, Murr thinks that his struggle with  BPD  is the result of his own short-comings, not a mental health problem.  He thinks that his fractured sense of self exists because he’s weak and  ALLOWS  something to change him.   He thinks his memory is terrible because he  ‘’ISN’T  SMART  ENOUGH’’  to recall things in detail.  He thinks that he feels sad because he’s  UNGRATEFUL  and  LAZY,  not because he struggles with the depression that comes along with BPD.  This kid  REALLY  needs some therapy, basically, but there’s currently nowhere to turn to in his canon.

PAST  TRAUMA:  An imperative point of Murr’s character is the life that he’s endured because of things outside of his control.  It’s easy to forget the trouble he went through because, ‘’oh, his friend just cut contact with him.’’  but Kuro’s abrupt leave actually  DESTROYED  HIS  LIFE.   Not only did he feel very lonely and isolated, he  FAILED  COLLEGE  because Kuro didn’t show to help him with his final project like he said he would, which triggered Murr’s first real mental breakdown.  Kuro’s abandonment saw him  DEGREE-LESS,  DABBLING  WITH  DRUGS,  ATTEMPTING  SUICIDE  and later  MOVING  OUT  OF  HIS  PARENT’S  HOME  TO  LIVE  A  CRAZED  LIFE  IN  A  DANGEROUS,  UNCHARTED  PLACE.  It was a huge turning point, one he had no control over, and it’s important not to gloss over it just because it ‘’wasn’t as severe as some other things that could have happened’’.  But yeah, he thinks that hurting over these things that happened ‘forever ago’ is a sign of how  DEFECTIVE  he is, not because he’s traumatised and wasn’t actually allowed to grieve over that or work through it in a healthy way.  Though he’s taken a lot of steps himself in order to let go of things--  forcing himself to reintegrate with Huron, forcing himself to become ‘more mature’, rekindling his relationship with Kuro and getting him to realise the devastation he caused him, producing Sincerely, Me which explored his troubles in depth and for a wide audience to also absorb and connect with, writing multiple books exploring topics he himself had gone through / was dealing with in present time, and trying to build some relationships with other people, etc--  he still needs professional help when it comes to dealing with everything that happened.

FAMILIAL  RESPONSIBILITY:  Part of being a Murphy is accepting that you are  EXTREMELY BLESSED  and living in a way that benefits others--  to use your good fortune to give back to the community that raised you.  However, because of his struggle with BPD and his unfortunate decline during his tens, Murr spent a large amount of his time  AWAY  FROM  HURON,  instead living in the uncharted No-Man’s Land in order to deal with his troubles.  Though he chose that life in order to better himself--  to put distance between himself and the things that were hurting him so badly--  he was left feeling exceptionally guilty and greedy.  His familial responsibility settled from an early age, and he has yet to understand that he  EXISTS  OUTSIDE  OF  THAT--  that sometimes, it isn’t about what’s best for his namesake but what’s best for  HIM.  That feeling of being ‘’selfish at heart’’  inevitably makes him feel as if he’s been ‘’infected’’ by something.

So yeah:  Murr thinks of himself as somebody who has been afflicted by something evil and unfortunate, not realising that he’s actually pretty sick, needs genuine help instead of being ostracised or bad-mouthed by his peers. (  though he’s made a lot of progress with the people of Huron, earning their trust through his contributions to the district, he still receives a lot of shunning, criticism and blame  ),  and would probably benefit from medication too.  Sometimes, during dissociative episodes, which happen with varying degrees of frequency depending on the state of mind he’s in / the alter he’s posing as in that given moment, he sees himself as having small devilish wings and a forked tail.  His reflection / shadow also tends to move independently of itself.  Though he tries desperately to convince himself that it isn’t real, that his mind is messing with him, he inevitably winds up confused and uncomfortable, questioning his reality.  It only worsens that poor self-esteem.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Imagine... [a pseudo ficlet]

Imagine that Lena is a touch-know.

Imagine, if you will, a young Lena Luthor who feels the full force of her mother's resentment whenever Lillian touches her skin.

Imagine young Lena in a house that's stood for six generations, walking the halls with her hands tucked under her arms lest she learn any more of the secrets that hide in its walls.

Imagine Lena at boarding school, abandoning her gloves when the teasing gets to be too much. Imagine how she tries not to touch anyone, but inevitable moments of contact shows her fragments of her peers' lives-- their hardships and secrets and neglect.

Imagine how that constant stream of negativity must slowly infect her, until she adopts the same cutthroat mentality of her peers. Think of that moment, in 5th grade, when Cindy Ryan starts monopolizing the attention of Lena's best friend, Adam.

Imagine that moment when Lena, with a school's collective nastiness roiling inside her head, pulls out Cindy's diary for the world to see.

The diary is fake, but the secrets are true, and Cindy's stunned confusion at how Lena could possibly know is enough for the others to believe. Adam thinks it's a riot, and quotes the diary at Cindy until she transfers out mid year.

Lena forgets Cindy for almost a decade, before they run into each other just after graduation, at a club in Metropolis. Somewhere in the massive crowd is a mutual acquaintance, and Lena, desensitized by the presence of so many people pressing in around her, shakes her hand in polite, if forced, greeting.

The white hot hatred that pours from her skin clashes against the pleasant, easy smile curling Cindy's lips. It crawls up Lena's nose and fills her mouth with the acrid taste of vomit as she sees the nights Cindy spent over the toilet, sick with dread and anxiety. It thunders against her ears in the voice of Cindy's father berating her for not being able to stomach the words of a few stupid girls and damning her proclivity for blabbing family secrets to the entire school.

All the fear and rage and hurt swirls and swirls and in the center of it all is Lena's own face, wearing the cruel smirk of that day in 5th grade.

Lena rips her hand away and bolts. She staggers home and vomits herself, puking and sobbing into the toilet bowl. Lex laughs at the antics of new grads and hands her a towel. The next morning, Lena pulls out all her old gloves. None of them fit, so she wears her winter gloves in the dead of a Metropolis summer to the store and buys out their entire section of elbow length gloves.

She bundles up and covers all the skin she can. She claims illness until people stop asking. She stops clubbing and sticks to her lab, where everything is new and without memory.

Over weeks, then months, then years, through summers and college and grad school, Lena slowly reclaims herself. The taint of her classmates fade, until all that's left is her shame and Cindy's lingering hate, which becomes her own.

She isolates so well that when Lex's arrest is announced, it's a complete and utter shock. She visits him every week, as the company and her world shakes under her feet.

Every visit, she asks.

"Did you do it?"

Every visit, he responds.

"Of course not, ace."

And every time, Lena swallows the lump that rises to her throat.

"Say it so I believe you."

By the end of the trial, Lena's given up hope. She doesn't need to touch a thing to see where the jury's leaning, or the way Lex unravels as he realizes the same.

On her final visit, the day before closing arguments, Lena asks one last time.

"Did you do it?"

Lex's response is to lurch forward and grip her naked cheeks in his bare hands, leaning so close she can smell the toothpaste on his breath.

"You tell me."

Years of images crash over her in the time it takes the guards to wrestle him away from her. She slumps against the table, gasping as scenes of carnage flash behind her eyes, the cockpit of the Lexosuit, Superman's snarling visage as the hero pummels her over and over, driving the breath from her lungs.

She's screaming when the prison comes back into focus, and Lex is dragged from the room

Lena doesn't go to the courthouse for the verdict.

She knows what it will be. She knows what it should be.

Guilty. Guilty and guilty and guilty and guilty and...

When the board thrusts the company at her, so she can hold the reins while LuthorCorp gallops full tilt towards the looming precipice, Lena accepts on one condition: she won't watch the company die.

If she gets control, then she keeps control when the stocks recover and then rise. She vows to reach new heights. Maybe it'll be enough to wash the blood from her nightmares.

National City is... unpleasant. Too warm for gloves, no matter how light. But she pulls them on every morning, rolls up her sleeves, and gets to work.

When she meets Kara Danvers, the reporter doesn't bat an eye at the gloves. She's the first interviewer not to ask about them. Lena waits for the inevitable curiosity, as acquaintance slowly turns to friendship-- but it never comes.

Her first game night, Lena discovers just how affectionate Kara is with her friends. Touches and hugs and leans on the couch. But never with Lena. It's a stark realization. Lena tries and fails not to be hurt, for suddenly feeling on the outside.

The hurt turns to chagrin when she sees Kara reach for her hand at their next lunch date, only to turn aside at the last minute, grabbing a napkin instead. It's so smooth Lena would have missed it if she hadn't been so on edge after game night. Only then does she realize: the lack of affection isn't a lack of affection.

It's respect for the boundaries Kara perceives in her long gloves and instinctive habit of curling in on herself.

Relief drives Lena to break the pattern. As Kara leaves, Lena reaches out to grasp Kara's wrist.

"Thank you for inviting me the other night," she says honestly. "I had a great time."

Kara's smile is blinding. Her hand covers Lena's, and even through the glove the touch is warm. It shoots a bolt of delight through Lena's sternum, and the last of her doubts drift away. The touches soon become a matter of course. Always soft, always through fabric, as though Kara sees exactly what she is and accepts her in sum.

And for now, it's enough.

[toastscraps]

A Kind of Symphony

An attempt at humor, but somehow got infected by angst. Inspired by @jojo56830​ ’s @linkeduniverse​. An answer to the Discord prompt, “Music.”

I also hit some of the bonuses, but not all.

- 3k+ words: Yes, I only doubled it this time.

- Sing, Sing, Sing!:  Sort of; I made up my own lyrics to a silly song, and one of the characters sings it.

- Tiptoe Through the Tulips: No.

- Lose Yourself to Dance: Not quite. I’ll just allude to it in a brief sentence. :)

Warnings: Magic, minor Bullying, gruesome masks?

Other Warnings: My take on River Zoras, a stupid made up song, made up magical item, two non-cannon invented song titles, lazy research, personal head cannons implied as fact for the sake of plot, side character OCs

Summary: Warriors isn’t like the others; but maybe that’s OK.

Characters owned by Nintendo, given life by JoJo, ruined by me.

               Hyrule’s land is one of peace and quiet, they have discovered. The big-bads have been vanquished and the Shadow has yet to taint the smaller ones. They fought some keese and zols earlier, but they were few in number and now that it is night they are lounging around the campfire enjoying themselves. Warriors is watching as Twilight and Wild play-wrestle, the others cheering on the two as one tries to knock the other out of the circle they’ve drawn in the dirt. Warriors believes Twilight will win, as he is the stronger of the two, but Legend’s money is on Wild. Why he thinks the smaller stands a chance, Warriors doesn’t know.

               “C’mon, Twilight! Push him out!” he cheers. Twilight is doing an admirable job at just that, Wild’s deer-skin boots digging small furrows in the ground as he fights to keep his position. Twilight himself is barefoot, not wanting an “unfair advantage”. Wild has yet to protest the arrangement, and Warriors suspects he is the kind to take any quarter. Wild is a survivalist, and if he can exploit a weakness, he will.

               But ultimately Twilight is stronger. Brute force and taking things down are what he is built for.

               In a move Warriors would never have calculated, Wild ducks under Twilight’s arm and twists behind him. Then with a shove he uses his mentor’s own momentum against him to push him toward the outside of the circle. The whole crowd gasps, Warriors included, but Twilight is able to stop his toes just before they leave the boundaries. Twilight gives a low, gravelly growl and whips around just as Wild moves forward to give him another push. He stands his ground, widening his stance and grabbing Wild around his waist, slinging him over his shoulder. Wild yelps and tries to find purchase anywhere where he can either free himself, or even better switch their positions. He ends up digging his fingers into Twilight’s sides. The elder Link releases him with a howl of laughter, but quickly recovers and blocks Wild’s attempt to ram him out of the ring.

               “It’s nice to see them in a friendly competition,” Four says quietly beside him, nearly scaring Warriors out of his skin. He’s never figured out how he can move so silently. “Things were getting a bit tense there for a while.”

               Twilight and Wild have been on the outs ever since Wild jumped in front of an arrow for him a week ago. Twilight has been upset that his protégé felt the need to protect him, and Wild has been miffed that Twilight was trying to make decisions for him, especially when it was his job to protect people.

               Sometime between then and arriving in Hyrule’s world they have come to an agreement, and are once again palling around like nothing has happened.

               “You’re telling me,” Legend snorts, watching on with folded arms. He is the most excited about Twilight’s almost-foul. “It’s about time those guys made up.”

               There is a sudden cheer as Twilight pins Wild to the ground, his shoulder landing outside their boundary. Warriors grins and holds his palm out to Legend, who grudgingly gives over the fifteen rupees they bet on. Warriors pockets the jewels and turns to see Twilight giving Wild a hand up. Everyone laughs and smiles and Wind jumps up on a boulder, his face glowing in the light of the fire.

               “Now I must sing a pirate cheer for the winner,” he crows.

                                 Ho! The champ has the glory,

                               Whose enemies he’s victor’d o’er,

                               Who’s beaten them sorely,

��                              And scared them to the shore,

                               Who’s blown down their captain,

                               Thrown the skipper o’erboard,

                               Crimped all the crew an’

                               Then became their lord!

                 Everyone laughs and claps along with Wind’s song. Warriors joins in, being able to keep the beat as long as everyone else is, too. Wind spins around and raises his knees high, stomping and smiling the whole time. When he is done, the claps scatter and Twilight bumps shoulders with Wild teasingly. Wind sits down and Sky pulls out a lyre. That seems to be some sort of signal as Time and Legend both dig into their bags and pull out ocarinas.

               “Hyrule has a flute, too,” Four calls out. Hyrule sends him a mild glare.

               “It’s just a recorder. And Four has an ocarina,” Hyrule accuses. “Maybe he should play it.”

               “You don’t have to get out an instrument if you don’t want to,” Legend says smugly. “Just leave this to the professionals.”

               Warriors almost sighs. Now Hyrule has taken that as a challenge and is removing the not-flute from his shoulder bag. His fingers are awkward on the instrument, as if he is unfamiliar with the handling. Four still refuses to get his out.

               “No, you have fun,” he says. “I’ll listen.”

               “You guys know the Overworld March?” Time asks.

               “Ooh! I do!” Wind says, “But I don’t have my flute, so I’ll just sing!”

               “I don’t know it, but I can probably pick it out,” Sky admits. “Chords are pretty easy.”

               “I’ll sing with Wind,” Twilight offers. “And Wild can, too. He’ll help us keep a beat.”

               “I don’t…know the words,” Wild hesitates.

               “It’s not hard,” Four says quietly. “I can sing, too.”

               Their conversation continues, and Warriors relaxes and begins to drown it out. He instead concentrates on the light shining on their faces, and how happy they look to be with each other and to be making music together. He doesn’t realize Sky has been trying to get his attention until Legend nudges him.

               “What?”

               “Do you play anything?” Sky asks.

               “Oh, no. I never learned.” Warriors isn’t too sorry he’s never learned. He’s never had the time, and has always been more interested in tactics and fighting techniques. And appearances, of course.

               “Maybe you can help keep a beat,” Hyrule suggests.

               “Oh, no. I’d probably mess you up,” Warriors smiles good-naturedly. “I’ll just listen.”

               “Come on, you can at least sing. If I have to keep the rhythm, you can at least help with the words.”

               “Nah, you don’t want me singing.”

               “Oh, come on.”

               “Coward.”

               “Really?”

               “Why not?” Wind whines.

               Warriors shrugs and jokes, “I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

               Everyone is silent; the atmosphere has become tense. All Hylians have a natural tendency to be good at music, and if not with an instrument, then at least they can all sing. There isn’t much more they can say to convince him to join in.

               “…But, no one can carry a tune in a bucket. That’s impossible…”

               “It’s an idiom, Sky.”

               “You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.” Time cradles his ocarina. Everything has gotten quiet and awkward.

               “Guys! Go ahead and play!” Warriors says, exasperated. “I enjoy just listening.”

               The others look at each other, and then Time quietly blows a couple notes into his ocarina, Legend joining in with the harmony. Sky soon picks up on the cords and Wind and Twilight are starting in with lyrics. Hyrule is playing a few notes, struggling to keep up with Time, and wincing to himself whenever he misses a cue. Wild is singing, too, and hitting a couple of stout branches against the hollow log he’s sitting on. Soon a beat rises up, and those who don’t have a wind instrument are smiling and joining in.

               Warriors doesn’t mind. He likes to watch the glow of his friends’ faces, and even though he has trouble hearing what is making Legend wince as they play, he picks up a little on the melody and the tempo and taps his foot to Wild’s rhythm. It becomes its own kind of symphony. He is sure to make his humming as quiet as possible. He doesn’t want to mess anything up.

                 Warriors is a tiny little thing, standing a half a head shorter than the rest of his class, even as a first year student. As such, he tries to make up for his stature by being as loud and obnoxious as possible. The need to be seen, to be recognized, overrides his teacher’s exasperated commands to be “quiet or you’ll be sweeping the floor tonight.” Warriors has become quite adept at using a broom.

               He has “friends,” but they are mostly amused at him, and not really friends. He takes being the butt of their jokes in stride; he doesn’t mind as long as he gets some attention. He tends to get noticed by adults more than by other kids. He’s such a cute kid, and has such beautiful blue eyes. He’s such an annoying brat, always talking loud and being disruptive in class.

               It is springtime, and the king will be riding in with his daughter, Zelda, to inspect their town. Warriors is excited, because he has heard stories about the bravery of the king in battle from his father, and his mother has told him that Princess Zelda is his age. He can’t wait to meet her.

               As is customary, the students of the school have to learn “Saluting Zelda”, Hyrule’s national anthem. The choir is made up of all the children in the class, and each class has to sing a different part. Warriors is particularly excited. 

               Their teacher has them memorize the words line by line. Warriors sets to committing it to his mind as soon as he gets his copy, running home with it to his mother and using his evenings to pour over the lyrics. He knows them better than anyone in his class.

               One day his teacher brings out a strange instrument called an accordion. She starts off with the first couple notes, telling the children to wait until the intro finishes playing before they join in. Warriors starts too early, and all the kids laugh at him. The next time she starts, he’s sure to watch from his periphery for the intake of breath the other students take before they begin.

               But somehow that goes wrong, too. The teacher tells him to behave and sing properly, or he’s getting detention. Warriors tries, he really does. He has the words down, and he doesn’t think he’s singing wrong, but somehow he finds himself sitting in the classroom after school with his head on the table, waiting for his mother to come and pick him up. He’s never cried in school before, but he’s close to it today. He feels so humiliated. He would rather not be seen by everybody, now.

               His mother takes him home, and Warriors doesn’t tell her what’s wrong. He stays in his room through supper and bed time, only emerging the next morning to go back to school. He is quieter in school that day, and ends up just letting the other children talk and laugh around him. The end of the day draws close, and he dreads what is coming.

               His teacher begins to play again, and again he waits for the children to take a breath before he starts (though he is beginning to get the timing down, now). He can now hear the melody, the notes, and the cacophony of his own voice against them. He thinks maybe, if he can adjust his voice, he can sing properly.

               It doesn’t work, and the teacher gets after him particularly harshly. Warriors bursts into tears, and yells that he’s trying, he just can’t get it to match. His teacher takes him by the shoulders, looks him in the face, and sighs.

               “It’s too bad,” she says. “Such a pretty face. I still want you standing in the front, but don’t sing. Just mouth the words.”

               And so Warriors does. He spends the rest of the practices mouthing words he’s memorized by heart, and trying to hum quietly to the tune when the others are practicing a particular detail over and over and over again. He thinks maybe if he can get it right, he can sing. But he never does, so he doesn’t.

               The day comes shining bright and glorious, as is befitting a king and his daughter. Warriors is still in the front, but it is no longer just his class. They are lined up along their main roadway and Warriors panics when he realizes his teacher isn’t carrying her accordion. One of the older students informs him that they have to wait for the sound of trumpets to start. He calms when he sees the others beginning to heave in a breath. He does so as well. Just as in practice, he mouths the words.

               The crowd roars and Warriors jumps, not expecting the sudden noise. People cheer as the knights come in first on their stallions, waving to the crowd. Warriors beams when his father rides by, careful to keep his mouth moving. His dad gives him a wink, his blue eyes sparkling and bright smile flashing, and then is gone. People start going down on their knees, and Warriors just barely remembers to do so, too, keeping his lips moving the entire time. The king comes in on a great chestnut stallion. Warriors can’t see much of him except his boots and the bottom of his red beard. A chariot follows after, and he catches a glimpse of pointed ears and corn-yellow hair between drawn lace curtains, and then it too is gone.

               It is so fast, Warriors is almost shocked out of singing (mouthing). That’s it? He isn’t going to be able to hear the king give a speech, or ask Zelda what it’s like to live in a palace? He tries not to let his disappointment show.

               Masking his feelings becomes something that Warriors grows adept at.

                 Hyrule splashes Wild as they “fish” with their hands in a calm, shallow section of the river. Somehow it has turned into a war, the two scaring more fish than they are catching. Upstream, well away from their antics, Time, Legend, and Twilight fish with actual poles. Wind is tending a fire not far away, Sky helping him smoke their catch so far. Warriors is laying in the sun, working on his tan, and Four is dozing nearby. Warriors considers joining him in dreamland.

               Their day is progressing much the same way as their night before did. It’s actually- really nice. Warriors wouldn’t mind it being like this all the time. He closes his eyes and stretches his arms back, trying to get the soft white underside that he hardly ever exposes, because it’s too vulnerable of a position. He can see the red of the sunlight, even behind his eyelids, and revels in the warmth soaking through. Birds are singing their melodies to the noon sun, and laughs and conversations drift up from the banks of the river.

               Suddenly there is an explosion, interrupting the peaceful quiet. Warriors cracks an eye open and glances downstream, expecting to see dead fish raining from the sky and Wild and Hyrule somehow in the middle of it all. What he doesn’t expect is Wild and Hyrule thrown back on the ground, not far from where Four is now jumping to his feet. What he doesn’t expect are giant creatures with decapitated reptile heads covering their faces rising from the water. He definitely doesn’t expect a hag clothed in seaweed to rise as well and push out a wave of magic with a blue aura.

               He doesn’t expect to fall asleep without any warning.

                 There are excited voices when Warriors gains consciousness. Some of them sound familiar, and more upset than happy. He blinks a couple of times, watching as scaly giants with lizard head masks come toward their… well, box. Hyrule and… Legend? … are already up, the latter spewing foul language and the former trying to negotiate with their captors and jabbing Legend in the ribs with his elbow for instigating rather than helping. One of the creatures lifts a lithe tube up to its mask and blows on the end. Something small comes out as a blur and flies through the blue barrier, hitting Legend in the neck. He falls to his knees and begins to mumble the same curses, but more quietly.

               “That was uncalled for!” Hyrule shouts. Warriors groans. He did not want to wake up to this.

               Warriors pushes himself up onto his knees and shuffles over to where Legend has already pulled the dart out of his neck and is trying to fight sleep.

               “If you don’t calm down,” the monster says from within the gruesome mask, “you’re going to get one too.” Warriors finds himself somewhat surprised that it can even talk; by the sound of it, it is a “she”.

               “Enough, Mantah,” the hag says, her features obscured by a mask of green. “We want them all awake when the Queen arrives.” Warriors doesn’t know who this “queen” is, and he doesn’t particularly want to find out. If she’s as hideous as these creatures, there’s no way he will ever want to see her.

               As they wait, Warriors sits down next to Legend, who is holding his head groggily. Hyrule is trying to wake up the others, shaking them and earning sleepy mutters of “what?” and from Sky a “five more minutes.” Several of the giants that caught them are off to the side, conversing quietly and pointing at them as if gleeful of the novelty of it all. Warriors barely catches, “Hylians! Can you believe it?” They seem quite excited about their prey. The captives are locked in a magical energy field of some kind, down in an impression in the stone. There is what appears to be a large throne carved out of the rock, larger than any of the giants present. A set of stairs leads up to its dais, a path of tile spreading out from its base. They are in a large cavern, conversations and sounds echoing and amplifying in its rotunda.

               Suddenly all other sound is drowned out by a blast of strings. They are far louder than any natural stringed instruments Warriors has ever heard, and by the time the ringing dies down, he notices that all of the water creatures have dropped to their knees. There is a procession of a dozen or so guards, similar to the ones that captured them, and then there is a group of unarmed footmen carrying a giant litter with what appears to be an enormous… sea slug, with tiny arms and legs, and wearing flowing robes.

               The others are awake by now, Time and Hyrule up by the front of the cage, glaring out at the monsters. Warriors tries to drag Legend further back (he somehow hasn’t fallen asleep again), but even in his groggy state he is able to slap Warriors’s hand away and insists that he’s, “not gonna let some demon fish intimidate” him. Warriors huffs and readjusts his hold to pull him behind Sky, who is just now getting to his feet. He ignores Legend’s struggles and sits with him on the floor next to Wind, who is blinking sleepily. Wild is also groaning; his joints popping as he stretches and rises, Twilight hovering anxiously nearby.

               “They’ve taken our weapons,” Four informs quietly, his hands twitching as he looks anxiously at the pile of sharp metal and heavy armor on the stone not far from them. Warriors feels his stomach drop. They are in more trouble than he’d originally thought. The master sword glows angrily from where she has been thrust into the pile, her indignation nearly audible as a low buzz.

               The sound is drowned out by a crier, whose face is bare of a mask. Warriors starts in surprise as he realizes that the monsters are actually Zoras, just with horrific headpieces. These merpeople aren’t nearly as friendly as the one he met due to Cia’s meddling.

               “All hail the Ruler of the Zora, her Majesty Queen Scallopa. All hail the Queen!”

               “All hail!” A myriad of voices fills the room just as the litter bearers crest the top of the stairs, straining under the weight of their burden. Warriors realizes that this must be the Queen. He has to squint and turn his head to even recognize something Zoran about her.

               A small eternity seems to pass as she is maneuvered onto her throne, and Warriors (almost) feels bad for the poor Zoras now arranging themselves to stand at attention by her sides. There is absolute silence through the hall. Then, a sudden booming voice comes from the Queen. “What have you brought me, Kelpit?”

               “Oh Queen Scallopa, may you live evermore,” the hag bows, her seaweed-covered head tilting back to reveal the sharp nose and dark eyes characteristic of the Zora. “I have brought you these fine young Hylians, to sacrifice their voices and abilities for your harp.”

               “Ah yes; Hylia’s people, who have all inherited her talent for music,” the Queen’s face shifts slightly, and Warriors realizes she is trying to tilt her head. “Very well. You cannot go wrong with them. Bring out my greatest creation; bring out the Harp of Spirits!”

               “Kelpit” seems strangely pleased with this answer, and a low rumble can be heard as a large, ornate harp is pulled in on a wooden cart. It is at least as tall as the tallest Zora there, excepting the colossal Queen, and has a dark blue color, similar to Time’s ocarina. Intricate gold swirls decorate it, and even Warriors, unskilled as he is in the ways of magic, can practically smell the stench of it coming off of the instrument. Hyrule’s nose is wrinkled, and he’s looking at the thing in apprehension, palms pressed on the blue barrier.

               The plain hero yelps as the surface below his hands is lost. He falls forward rapidly, Time reaching out as if to grab him and keep him from face planting, but his hand is blocked by a blue shield replacing the one that was lost. Instead, Hyrule is left trapped in a bubble of the blue stuff, where he is brought closer to the hag. The harp is finally pulled to rest in front of their enclosure, more Zoras carefully lifting it from its rolling platform and setting it down into a groove cut in the floor. The bubble around Hyrule coalesces to form a set of cuffs at his wrists, forcing his arms behind his back and trapping them there. He is shoved to his knees before the harp, and the witch raises her hand.

               “He has a flute in his belongings,” Mantah says, and Warriors barely hears Hyrule correct her:

               “It’s a recorder.”

               The witch grabs Hyrule’s face and examines it closely. Warriors thinks he hears Wild growl to his left, but he can’t be certain. Mantah hands the witch the recorder at her request. She releases her grip on the teen’s face, and the wind instrument lights up with a blue glow, which connects via a faint string of light to Hyrule’s fingertips. Their light is even duller.

               “No, he is not skilled enough with it. I will not sully the harp with his greenness. His voice will have to do.”

               Hyrule’s mouth opens without his control, and the harp begins vibrating. His eyes widen and a scale of sound starting (somewhat) low and increasing in pitch is forced out. Warriors may not be able to hear melodies correctly until the fourth or fifth time around, but even he can tell that Hyrule’s voice is beautiful: not a crack, not a hesitation. The harp glows greedily, sucking in the sound and leaving Hyrule winded. The witch carelessly flicks her wrist and Hyrule is thrown back into the cage where he is left gasping for air. Sky helps him up and the younger hero tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Hyrule pales, his hand flying to his throat. The Queen seems pleased, and requests that the harp play. The strings move expertly, guided by invisible fingers, and a haunting melody pours out, the cries of several dozen voices that were taken from their bodies too early.

               Warriors shouts and abandons Legend on the ground as Wind is ripped from them next, struggling and pulling at the magic shackles as he’s lifted toward the harp. He swears, young voice cursing up a storm of words he must have learned from the pirates he was always telling stories about. The witch doesn’t even try to ask for any skill this time. “He’s too young,” she scratches out, “any skill he has is not fully developed. We can try again another time, after he’s been trained. His voice, though, will be sweet and tender; a beautiful addition to our collection.” She lifts her hand. Warriors rams his shoulder into the barrier in hopes of breaking it, and can feel Time and Twilight doing the same not far from him, but he can do nothing as Wind’s voice, high and beautiful without the depth of maturity to age it, is stolen from him and stored in the harp. Instead, he moves to catch his little brother as he’s tossed back in like a ragdoll. Wind’s eyes are wide and his body trembling. All Warriors can do is hold him closer as the monster takes her next victim.

                 Warriors’s mother finds him crying in his room. He is lying on his little bed, holding his pillow close to his face. “What’s wrong, my bairn?” The bed dips as she sits on it, her fingers resting on his scalp to comb through wavy gold locks.

               “I don’t know!” Warriors wails, burying his face deeper.

               “There’s always a reason,” his mother pauses. “Is this about the parade?” Warriors doesn’t answer. He feels shame rise in him. He’d been so excited, even after he was told not to sing. But now he was just tired.

               “Your papa was there,” she says. “Weren’t you happy to see him?” Warriors nods.

               “Yeah,” his voice comes out shaky, but his sniffles are dying down. “He winked at me.” He’d almost forgotten that, how his father had left decorum to show some warmth toward his son. Appearances are incredibly important to his dad.

               “That was something good, then,” she says. Warriors rolls over to look at her and she removes her hand. Her brown hair is tied up in a loose bun and she’s smiling at him tenderly. He sits up to scoot closer and be welcomed into her embrace. “Let me guess; the king and princess weren’t as amazing as you were hoping they’d be.”

               Warriors’s eyes widen. He has no idea how she knows. He voices it as a question.

               “It’s not that hard to figure out,” she laughs, the sound bubbling from her throat. “I’ve been to a couple of them myself.”              

               “We’ve been practicing every day for weeks,” he says. “I memorized every word; I still remember all of them.”

               “I know.”

               “It was over so fast! They just rode by, like it was nothing!”

               “I know.”

               He pouts, his arms crossed. “I didn’t get to sing. I just had to stand there and mouth the words and ‘look pretty’.” His mother’s arm stiffens and she bends to look him in the face.

               “So that’s why you’ve been so down the last couple a’ weeks.”

               He looks away from her, ashamed. “Everyone else sings,” he says sullenly.

               His mother sighs and pulls him onto her lap. “I’m afraid you’ve inherited your mother’s musical abilities,” she says.

               He sniffs and wipes his eyes. “What do you mean?”

               His mother smiles ruefully. “Hylians are all able to sing. They are naturally musically inclined. They can pick apart the inconsistencies in tone and pitch, and can quickly adjust accordingly. A lot of humans can, too, though not to the skill level of Hylians. But some humans have a harder time with music. It’s a genetic thing, and sometimes it can be trained out with a lot of hard work. You have to ask yourself, though, if it is worth it.”

               “What do you mean?”

               “What’s important to you? If you want to teach yourself to sing or play an instrument when it’s incredibly difficult for you, then great, you can do that. But so can every Hylian that lives in Hyrule, and to them it comes naturally. But you aren’t everyone else; you’re your own individual. It might seem like a good idea to be like everyone else, especially when they prize something you don’t have, but in the end it just steals your life from you. You work hard for something that may never measure up to their standards, and your hard work doesn’t end up paying off. You become miserable rather than liked. And you end up disliking yourself.

               “What’s important to you, Link? What do you want to spend your time doing?”

               Warriors smiles. That’s easy. “I want to spend time with you!” he exclaims. His mother laughs. Warriors loves his mother’s laugh. Her brown eyes smile.

               “You are quite the wee flatterer, aren’t you? C’mon, help me get dinner ready for your papa. He’ll be hungrier than a bear when he gets home tonight.”

                 Warriors is the only one left by the time the witch gets to him. All the others are silent, their voices having been taken, and in certain cases their skills as well. Wind has (mostly) recovered, and is sitting tensely nearby. Legend is extremely pale, like the harp took out an enormous chunk of his soul. He’s shuddering and glaring at the others in an obvious, “stay away” fashion, but Sky has somehow been able to break through his barrier and is resting a hand on his shoulder. The others appear dour as well, though Wild doesn’t look nearly as heartbroken. He’s signing something to Time. Warriors has no idea what, though.

               Four is thrown back in, landing with a thump on the floor. Wind goes forward to console him, (though he looks fairly well put together) and Warriors feels the tug of energy on his body. He is yanked forward, and the Queen is sitting in complete bliss as she listens to the harp hum with the lost voices of his friends. To him, it doesn’t sound beautiful: it just sounds like they are in pain.

               “Last one,” Kelpit murmurs, and his hands are locked behind his back. “No instrument, Mantah?” she asks. Mantah replies to the negative, and the hag looks at him curiously. “Odd. I would have thought that by now one as old as you would have at least tried something. Very well. He is a Hylian; I suppose his voice will have to do.”

               “I can’t sing,” Warriors says quickly. There is a moment of complete silence, and then the entire court erupts in laughter. The hag’s shoulders shake, too, a twisted grin showing broken teeth.

               “I have to admit, I haven’t heard that one before. You’re funny. Perhaps, if I had let you keep your voice, you would have made an excellent jester. But we’ll never know.” Warriors feels the tug of magic on his vocal chords, and he suddenly understands why the others were so distraught. Sounds begin to leave his throat, and even he can tell that something’s not right. The harp, rather than humming in pleasure, is trembling as if withstanding an awful gale that is shaking its very foundation.

               “Stop!” the Queen commands. “Stop it this instant!”

               “I’m trying,” Kelpit is weaving her hands through the air frantically as if there is an elusive fairy she has to catch.

               There is a loud crack which echoes through the room. Strings break and snap under the weight of Warriors’s sound. He can’t stop it, and at this point he doesn’t want to. Something like pleased retribution rises in his gut as the Queen’s greatest achievement becomes nothing more than a frame with broken wires and splintered wood. There is the briefest moment of silence as Warriors’s dissonance tapers off and the harp still stands, albeit decrepitly. The whole room seems to hold its breath. Suddenly there is an explosion of blue light and a hundred screams louder than the crashing of many thunders. Warriors turns his face to the side and covers his eyes as it blasts throughout the room, its boom making little rumbles in his chest. When the dust clears, the hag has been knocked on her back and Warriors has been freed. He glances over his shoulder at the others who have left the enclosure and are now going to their weapons.

               The Queen seems particularly distraught. “My harp! My glorious harp!”

               “I did warn you,” Warriors says, pleased to have his voice back.

               “You!” she seethes, turning toward him. “You’ve ruined everything with that awful thing you call a voice. I’m going to rip out your vocal chords and feed them to the Dodongos!”

               “No, you won’t.” Time moves forward with his sword in his hand. Without their witch, the others are able to take down the Zoras easily. The guards aren’t prepared to shoot darts out, and many of them are lying stunned on the ground from the harp’s explosion. The litter-bearers aren’t warriors, and scattered the moment the heroes got their hands on their weapons.

               The Queen screams in frustration, commanding her guards to wake up and recapture their prisoners, but it’s too late. Time and Hyrule are grinning as they hold their swords to her fat chin. Legend has finished off his foes and is stomping on the remains of the harp, as if rendering it to dust will somehow sate his rage.

               “You pathetic rodents, how could you? You destroyed a masterpiece of art! A legacy that would have been passed down to generations of Royalty!”

               “I’d be quiet if I were you,” Sky says from where he’s tying up stunned guards.

               The monster’s pale grey eyes turn to him, and Warriors feels the weight of her stare. Oh well. He’s used to stares. “It’s impossible! How - I don’t understand! You’re Hylian! How could you be so horrible!??”

               “I’m half human, you giant ugly sea-slug,” Warriors gloats. “Some of us have notoriously bad voices. Your time on the stage is over; I think it’s time for you to take a bow.”

               Four comes up beside Warriors and puts a hand on his arm. “As much as I’d love to dethrone this tyrant, we have to be mindful of the power gap that may be left behind. Zoras have a strict line of succession, and –” he is cut off as the Regent’s eyes widen and her blob-like form tips forward. She screeches as she rolls down the steps, leaving behind Wild and Legend, who high-five.

               “How’s that for a dethroning?” Legend trumpets.

               “Help me! Help me up!” She’s relied so long on the servitude of the smaller Zoras that she no longer can raise herself.

               “Help yourself,” Hyrule mutters, and sheaths his sword. They are done.

                 Warriors is walking with the others back to their camp, which had been left in disarray. Twilight quietly pads beside him and watches the others run and laugh as they approach the clearing where their fish had been left to dry in the sun. Warriors feels warm and light. Being with the others is something he will never take for granted.

               “You can sing with us, you know,” Twilight says suddenly to his right. Warriors looks at him from the corner of his eye. “None of us care how you sound.”

               Warriors can feel the surprise on his face. “You heard me; you heard how horrible I was!”

               Twilight shrugs. “Not really. I’ve heard worse. I grew up in a village of humans, I know horrible singing.” He grins and turns to Warriors. “Though, you are pretty bad…”

               Warriors gasps and holds a hand to his chest dramatically. “How dare you!”

               “I wouldn’t lie to you,” Twilight grins. Warriors shoves at him with his shoulder. The sturdy farmhand isn’t fazed a bit, and Warriors ends up bouncing back the way he came. Twilight’s laugh is low and gravelly, and Warriors is surprised to find it isn’t much different from his singing.

               “But seriously,” he continues after his chuckles have died off, “you don’t need to be ashamed of your voice. Don’t ever feel that way. Everyone should be able to enjoy singing, whether or not they are the best at it.”

               “I’m not sure the others will feel that way,” Warriors says dryly. “Legend seems a bit persnickety when it comes to music.”

               “He’ll get over it. If he doesn’t, I’ll wrestle him into the ground.” Twilight smiles, but Warriors gets the feeling he’s serious.

               “Thanks,” because no Hylian but his father has ever given him quarter when it comes to his pipes.

               “Now,” Twilight claps his hands, “let’s get back to the others. I overheard Wild talking about a fish daikon stew, and I can’t wait to try it!”

               As Twilight jogs to catch up, Warriors smiles. He has a hard time with melody, it’s true. Today has only cemented that fact more firmly in his mind. But he isn’t deaf to beauty. His friends laughing, talking with and enjoying one another, that is music to his ears. As he hurries to catch up to their group he chuckles to himself. He is more than ready for that kind of symphony.

[thewritewolf]

Rekindle Chapter 16: Ghosts

The day after their defeat of Hawkmoth.

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@marichatmay

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The morning lights filtered in through the windows, forcing Marinette to accept that the day had begun. Still mostly asleep, she groped blindly toward the other half of the bed, searching for the familiar source of warmth that had helped her sleep so soundly last night. When she didn’t find it, she sat up on her elbows and blew aside an errant lock of hair with an irritated huff. Excluding herself, the bed was empty.

Had it all been a dream? No - his overshirt and shoes were cast aside at the foot of the bed. He’d at least been here. And unless he intended to go walking around in his bare feet, then he was still here. She sniffed the air hopefully, but couldn’t smell any delicious scents, much to her disappointment. Although maybe that was to be expected. She certainly wouldn’t have felt in the mood for cooking if that all had happened to her.

She rolled over to plant her feet on the ground and forced herself out of bed. There was a lot to do in the newly Hawkmoth-less world. She hesitated as she looked down the hall at the guest room. Maybe he had gotten up in the middle of the night to sleep alone? Poking her head in, she saw the bed was still perfectly made and waiting for a guest. So he’d spent the night with her. Her heart fluttered before remembering why he’d had to stay at all.

The living room was as she remembered it last night - restored by the Ladybug Cure, but blankets left astrew from their impromptu movie marathon.

“Adrien?” She softly called his name, not wanting to alert the neighbors. “Are you there?”

“Marinette?” Tikki replied. She turned around to track its source and found her kwami sitting on top of an envelope in the kitchen, working her way through a cookie only slightly smaller than herself. “They left before I woke up. But they left a note!” She floated off of the envelope as Marinette walked over to pick it up.

The message was simple and frustratingly vague: “I’ll be back tonight. Discovered something about Hawkmoth.”

She frowned at that. Hawkmoth. Not dad, or father, or even Gabriel. Hawkmoth. Before she could dwell on it further, her eyes widened and she frantically looked around. The Butterfly miraculous was missing!

Taking a deep breath, Marinette forced herself to calm down and think things through. “Tikki. Can kwami appear if there isn’t a wielder of their miraculous?”

Tikki considered this for a long moment. “Well, yes, but we don’t like to. It is super tiring because it means we have to manifest without a living anchor in this world.” She nibbled a little at her cookie, looking pensive. “Do you think that Nooroo spoke to Adrien?”

“Nooroo? That’s the name of the butterfly kwami?” At Tikki’s nod, Marinette continued. “I don’t see why else Adrien would take the butterfly miraculous. But I don’t understand what Nooroo could’ve told Adrien that would make him leave without saying goodbye.”

Putting a comforting paw on Marinette’s cheek, Tikki replied, “I’m sure he had a good reason. Chat Noir wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

Marinette flashed a smile at Tikki’s concern. “I know. But thanks for saying it. It makes me feel a little better. Especially with what we have to do next.” Marinette ran her fingers through her hair and suddenly realized how dirty she felt. Even if the sweat and grim had been cleaned off by the Ladybug Cure, she’d feel better after a shower. “Finish up your cookie. We need to talk with the mayor and call a press meeting.”

And if Adrien wasn’t back after that was over… then she’d let herself start to worry. But for now, she put on a brave face and got cleaned up. Who knows? Maybe she would meet someone new today.

--------------------------

Adrien entered his childhood home, just another shadow among many. The mansion’s defenses hadn’t been difficult to weave through. They were like an old friend to him, a hurdle he would have to constantly evade back during his teenage years. Only slightly more arduous to get around was the police sentry posted outside, but even then, the early morning ensured the guard wasn’t exactly at the top of his game.

Maybe they didn’t have a warrant yet, or maybe their lingering fear of Hawkmoth kept them from entering. Either way, only his footfalls echoed in the spacious halls, halls that felt even emptier without Gabriel’s presence looming over everything like an omnipresent shadow. Finding himself in the foyer, he looked up at the giant painting Hawkmoth had commissioned shortly after the disappearance of Emilie Agreste.

Disappearance. Adrien remembered Gabriel’s very careful choice of words, remembered how he had brushed it off at the time as him just being a strange person. Even years later, Adrien just thought that Gabriel hadn’t given up on finding his wife someday. That he was unable to move on.

His claws hands clenched into a fist. He hadn’t been entirely wrong. Gabriel hadn’t been able to move on, but that was partially because he had known something that Adrien didn’t. Something he had kept hidden from Adrien for ten years. Something that Nooroo had told Adrien after forcing himself outside the tainted miraculous. Emilie Agreste, Adrien’s mother and the wife of the person who would become Hawkmoth was alive… at least for now.

Adrien climbed the staircase and entered Gabriel’s study. Just as he remembered it, a painting of his mother hung on the wall at the back of the room. Years ago, he had discovered a safe containing the miraculous book behind it. But there was more to it than that. Pressing the hidden buttons that Nooroo had described, Adrien felt a brief rush of panic as he sunk through the floor and ended up inside an underground facility.

All his questions faded away to background noise when he saw her, resting peacefully inside a sarcophagus of glass and metal. She didn’t look a day older than how he remembered her, wearing her favorite white suit with a vibrant rose attached to her lapel. Her expression was serene, as if she was sleeping. Or was he sleeping and this was just another dream of his, the sort that he had stopped having a few years after she had vanished?

Before he could find a way to pinch himself through the suit, a tiny but ragged voice sounded near his ear. “She doesn’t have long left.”

His head jerked to the side, where he saw Nooroo, looking at him with weary eyes. He hadn’t even considered that kwami could become sick, but those doubts were put aside when he took in how frail Nooroo looked, the way that his big kwami eyes had bags under them, the way he shivered in the chill of the underground. Nooroo was looking even worse than he had before, when he had woken Adrien up in the early hours of the morning.

His words caught up to Adrien. “What do you mean? Isn’t she fine while she is in there?”

Nooroo shook his head sadly and Adrien heart dropped. “The machine is effective, but imperfect. Her sickness has advanced through the years. On the tenth anniversary of her internment, she will succumb to the infection.”

“Sickness? Infection?” He fought to keep his voice from breaking. It was hard to grasp that his mother was still alive, making it all the more painful that she was about to be ripped from him all over again. He was starting to get tired of all the tears.

“Gabriel and her used to run across the rooftops of Paris, using the miraculous not for evil but for simple pleasure.” Nooroo sighed. “But Duusu’s miraculous had been damaged during the Fall. It wasn’t safe to use. We tried to tell them but...” Nooroo looked over at the still form of Emilie. “...They didn’t listen.”

“So… Gabriel somehow built this,” Adrien gestured to the wires and tubes leading into the machine, “and put mom in it. Right?” Nooroo nodded. “Can’t I just get her out now, take her to Master Fu? There is still a week until the anniversary. That should be plenty of time to heal her, right?”

Nooroo watched him with sad eyes. “I’m so sorry, Adrien. She will last a week inside the machine, or maybe an hour or two outside of it. Even if she did live a week, there is nothing Master Fu can do. The infection is beyond mortal power to heal. There is only one thing that could possibly save her now.”

Adrien looked at his ring and frowned, deep in thought.

-----------------------------------

As much as Marinette would love to have Chat Noir by her side right now, it was for the best that he didn’t see the crowd of reporters gathered in front of her. Most were wearing bright smiles and there was an excited energy arcing around the space. And why shouldn’t they be excited? Their long nightmare was finally at an end.

She clamped down on her nervousness, remembering the lessons Chat Noir had given her way back near the beginning of their superhero career. Deep breaths. Stay focused. She had always been curious about how he knew so much about making public appearances. Now she knew.

“Citizens of Paris!” The voice of Ladybug cut through the chatter, silencing conversations immediately. “Hawkmoth, now known to be Gabriel Agreste, has been defeated for good. I am in possession of his miraculous and he is now in police custody.” She allowed them to cheer before she continued. “I will now be answering questions by the press, but keep in mind that some things must remain secret.”

“Was Gabriel Agreste working alone? Do you know if his son or any of his employees were involved?”

Marinette’s heart leapt to her throat before she got her feelings under control. It was a question she had been anticipating, but not so soon. Still, she rolled out the answer she and Tikki had prepared.

“I can only say for certain that Nathalie Sancoeur had some involvement in Hawkmoth’s plans, as evidenced by her willful assistance during last night’s battle. Adrien Agreste, meanwhile, we believe to be completely innocent of his father’s wrongdoings.”

“And where is Adrien Agreste?”

Showtime. “Since we believe he may be in danger, Adrien agreed to be hidden for his own protection. Chat Noir and I believe that this is the ideal solution for the time being. Rest assured that he is being looked after.” Hopefully that would buy time for everything to die down a little before Adrien returned to the public eye. The reporters jotted down her answer, not fully pleased with it, but at least accepting it.

The questions continued to come, but nothing made her react the way that the first one had. Some she had to turn down entirely - where the miraculous would go or how they intended to track down Nathalie, for instance.

All the while, worry gnawed at her in the back of her mind.

----------------------------

“Hey, Adrien,” she settled next to where he sat on the stairs in the foyer of his old home, in the shadow of a horribly dour painting of his father and him. His head was in his clawed hands as he stared at the ground.

He seemed startled at the sound of his own name and looked over at her with red rimmed eyes and a wavering smile. “Hey, Mari. How’d you find me here?”

She dropped her transformation and wrapped an arm around his and wiped away his tears with the cuffs of her sleeves. “It wasn’t hard. Where else would you have gone? And with the Butterfly miraculous too.”

“I could’ve taken it to Master Fu,” he offered feebly.

“Then you would’ve taken me with you.” She cupped his cheek and smiled sadly. “Sorry, kitty. I don’t want you to be alone.”

He swallowed heavily. “I found out what Hawkmoth was trying to do.”

“Was it something to do with your mother?” It was an educated guess. What else would Gabriel Agreste, the fabulously successful and rich fashion star, want?

“Yeah…” He stared off into the distance again before looking around the foyer. “You know, this place used to be my whole world. I rarely ever got to leave when I wasn’t doing stuff for his business. I didn’t mind much at the time, though. I didn’t know anything different. Besides, mom was there, so even if it wasn’t lively, it was warm and welcoming.”

She just watched and held onto him. It was clearly something he needed to get off his chest.

“We had a funeral for her three years ago. There hadn’t been any sign of her for years, so we just gave up hope.” He scowled. “Not Gabriel though. Refused to go to the funeral, so I had to go alone, see family I’d never met before and try to explain why he hadn’t show up to his own wife’s funeral.”

There was a long silence between them before Marinette said, “I’m sorry about your parents, Adrien. Your mother sounds amazing. I’m wish I could’ve talked to her, thanked her for raising such a good son.”

Adrien turned to look at her with those wide Chat eyes and for a moment she was worried she said something wrong. Then, he smiled. It was small, but it was genuine and heartfelt. “Come with me, Mari. There's someone I want you to meet.”